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MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 



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MICHAEL AND HIS 
LOST ANGEL 

A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS 



BY 



HENRY ARTHUR TONES 
w 

AUTHOR OF "THE TEMPTER," " THE CRUSADERS,' "THE CASK OF 

REBELLIOUS SUSAN," " THE MIDDLEMAN," " THE DANCING 

GIRL," " JUDAH," " THE MASQUERADERS," " THE 

TRIUMPH OF THE PHILISTINES," ETC. 



Neto gorfc 
MACMILLAN AND CO 

AND LONDON 
1895 

All rights reserved 




0*1 HQ fXA* 






Copyright, 1895, 
By MACMILLAN AND CO. 



Nortoooti J3«B8 

J. S. Pushing & Co. - Berwick & Smith 
Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

The Reverend Michael Feversham. 

Sir Lyolf Feversham. 

Edward Lashmar (Father Hilary). 

Andrew Gibbard. 

The Reverend Mark Docwray. 

WlTHYCOMBE. 

audrie lesden. 
Rose Gibbard. 
Mrs. Cantelo. 
Fanny Clover. 

Villagers, Congregation, Choristers, Priests. 



ACT I. 

The Vicarage Parlour at Ceeveheddon. 
{Four months pass.) 

ACT II. 

The Shkine on Saint Decuman's Island. 
( Two nights and a day pass.) 

ACT III. 

The Vicarage Parlour as in Act I. 

{A year passes. ) 

ACT IV. 

The Minster Church at Cleveheddon. 

( 7 'en months pass. ) 

ACT V. 

Reception Room of the Monastery of San Salvatore 
at Majano, Italy. 



ACT I 

Scene. — The Vicarage parlour at Cleveheddon. An 
old-fashioned comfortable room in an old English 
house. A large window, with low broad sill, takes 
up nearly all the back of the stage, showing to the 
right part of Cleveheddon Minster in ruins. To the 
left a stretch of West Country landscape. A door, 
right, leading to house. A fireplace, right. A door, 
left. Table with chairs, right. A portrait of 
Michakl's mother hangs on wall at a height of 
about nine feet. It is a very striking painting of a 
lady about twenty-eight, very delicate and spirituelle. 
Time. — A fine spring morning. Discover at the 
window, looking off right, with face turned away 
from audience, and in a?i attitude of strained 
attention to something outside, Andrew Gibbard. 
Enter Fanny Clover, the vicarage servant, show- 
ing in the Reverend Mark Docwray, a middle- 
aged clergyman. 

Fanny. Mr. Feversham is over to the church, sir, 
but he'll be back directly. {Exit.) 

Mark. Andrew 



2 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL ACT I 

(Andrew turns round, an odd, rather seedy, care- 
lessly-dressed man, a little over forty, rather 
gaunt longish hair, an intelligent face with 
something slightly sinister about it. He shows 
signs of great rece?it sorrow and distress.) 

Mark. Andrew, what is it? 

Andr. I'd rather not tell you, Mr. Docvvray. 

Mark. Nothing has happened to Mr. Feversham ? 

Andr. No. 

Mark. Come ! Come ! What's the matter? 

Andr. My daughter 

Mark. What ails her? Where is she? 

Andr. Over at the church. 

Mark. What is she doing? 

Andr. Making a public confession. 

Mark. Public confession — of what ? 

Andr. You'll be sure to hear all about it, so I may 
as well tell you myself. Perhaps it was my fault, 
perhaps I neglected her. All my time is given to Mr. 
Feversham in the library here. While I was buried in 
my work, and sometimes staying here half the night 
with Mr. Feversham, a scoundrel ruined my girl. Of 
course my only thought was to hide it. Was I wrong? 

Mark. Go on. Tell me all. 

Andr. Well, right or wrong, I sent her away to 
the other end of England. Her child only lived a few 
weeks. And I brought her back home thinking it was 
all hushed up. 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 3 

Mark. But it became known? 

Andr. Yes. Little by little, things began to leak 
out. Well, you may blame me if you like — I lied 
about it ; and the more lies I told, the more I had to 
tell to cover them. Mr. Feversham heard of it and 
questioned us. Like a fool I lied to him. It wasn't 
like lying, it was like murdering the truth to tell lies 
to him. And she had to lie, too. Of course he 
believed us and defended us against everybody. And 
then we daredn't tell him the truth. 

Mark. Go on. What else ? 

Andr. There's nothing else. It all had to come 
out at last. 

Mark. What did Mr. Feversham do? 

Andr. He persuaded us that we could never be 
right with ourselves, or right with our neighbours, or 
right with our God, till we had unsaid all our lies, 
and undone our deceit. So we've confessed it this 
morning. 

Mark. In church ? In public ? 

Andr. Yes. I wouldn't have minded it for myself. 
But was it necessary for her — for Rose? Was it 
bound to be in public before all her companions, 
before all who had watched her grow up from a 
child ? 

Mark. You may be sure Mr. Feversham wouldn't 
have urged it unless he had felt it to be right and 
necessary. 

Andr. I wouldn't have done it for anybody else in 



4 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

the world. I feel almost as if I were quits with him 
for all his favours to me. 

Mark. You mustn't speak like this. Remember 
all he has done for you. 

Andr. Oh, I don't forget it. I don't forget that 
I was his scout's son, and that he educated me and 
made me his friend and companion and helper — there 
isn't a crumb I eat or a thread I wear that I don't owe 
to him. I don't forget it. But after this morning, I 
feel it isn't I who am in Mr. Feversham's debt — it's 
he who is in my debt. 

{A penitential hymn, with organ accompaniment, 
is sung in church outside.} 

Andr. {looking off}. It's over. They're coming 
out. 

Mark. Why aren't you there, in church, by her 
side? 

Andr. I was. I went to church with her. I stood 
up first and answered all his questions, and then I 
stood aside, and it was her turn. I saw her step for- 
ward, and I noticed a little twitch of her lip like her 
mother used to have, and then — I couldn't bear it 
any longer — I came away. I know it was cowardly, 
but I couldn't stay. {Looking off.) Hark ! They're 
coming ! She's coming with the sister who is going 
to take her away. 

Mark. Take her away ? 

Andr. Mr. Feversham thinks it better for her to 
be away from the gossip of the village, so he has 






act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 5 

found a home for her with some sisters in London. 

She's going straight off there. Perhaps it's best. I 

don't know. 

(Rose Gibbard, sobbing, with her face in her 
hands, passes the window from right to left, 
supported by a Protestant sister. The Rever- 
end Michael Feversham follows them and 
passes window. A crowd of villagers come 
up to the window and look in. A moment or 
two later, Rose Gibbard enters left, supported 
by the sister. Rose is a pretty delicate girl 
of about twenty, with rather refined features 
and bearing. .) 
Andr. (holding out his arms to her). Bear up, 

my dear. Don't cry ! It breaks my heart to see 

you. 

Enter the Reverend Michael Feversham, about forty ; 
pale, strong, calm, ascetic, scholarly face, with much 
S7veetness and spirituality of expression ; very digni- 
fied, gentle manners, calm, strong, persuasive voice, 
rarely 1-aised above an ordinary speaking tone. His 
whole presence and bearing denote great strength of 
character, great dignity, great gentleness, and great 
self-control. 

The villagers gather round the outside of the 
window and look in with mingled curiosity, rude- 
ness, and respect. Michael goes up to left window, 
opens it. The villagers draw back a little. 



6 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

Mich, {speaking in a very calm voice). Those of 
you who are filled with idle foolish curiosity, come 
and look in. (They fall back.) Those of you who 
have been moved by all the awful lesson of this morn- 
ing, go to your homes, ponder it in your hearts, so 
that all your actions and all your thoughts from this 
time forth may be as open as the day, as clear as 
crystal, as white as snow. 

( They all go away gradually. Michael comes 
away fro??i the window, leaving it open, goes 
to Mark.) 
Mich. Mark! (Cordial handshake.) You've come 
to stay, I hope ? 

Mark. A few days. You have a little business here ? 
(Glancing at the group of Rose, Andrew, and 
Sister.) 
Mich. It's nearly finished. Leave me with them 
for a few moments. 

Mark. I'll get rid of the dust of my journey and 
come back to you. 

(Exit Mark. Michael turns towards Rose with 
great tenderness.) 
Mich. Poor child ! 

(She comes towards him with evident effort; the 

Sister brings a chair and she sinks into it, 

sobbing. ) 

Mich, (bending over her with great tendei'tiess). 

I know what you have suffered this morning. I would 

willingly have borne it for you, but that would not 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 7 

have made reparation to those whom you have de- 
ceived, or given you peace in your own soul. {She 
continues sobbing.') Hush ! Hush ! All the bitter- 
ness is past ! Look only to the future ! Think of 
the happy newness and whiteness of your life from 
this moment ! Think of the delight of waking in the 
morning and knowing that you have nothing to hide ! 
Be sure you have done right to own your sin. There 
won't be a softer pillow in England to-night than the 
one your head rests upon. {She becomes quieter. 
Michael turns to the Sister.) Watch over her very 
carefully. Keep her from brooding. Let her be 
occupied constantly with work. And write to me 
very often to tell me how she is. {Turns to Rose.) 
The carriage is ready. It's time to say good-bye. 
Rose. Good-bye, sir. Thank you for all your 

kindness. I've been very wicked 

Mich. Hush ! That is all buried now. 
Rose. Good-bye, father. 

{Throws her arms round Andrew's neck, clings 

to him, sobs convulsively for some moments in 

a paroxysm of grief. Michael watches them 

for some moments.) 

Mich, {intercepts, gently separates them). It's more 

than she can bear. Say good-bye, and let her go. 

Andr. {breaking down). Good-bye, my dear! 

{Kissing her.) Good-bye — I — I — I 

{Tears himself away, goes up to window, stands 
back to audience.) 



8 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

Mich. {To Rose.) No more tears ! Tears are 
for evil and sin, and yours are all past ! Write to 
me and tell me how you get on, and how you like 
the work. It will bring you great peace — great 
peace. Why, you are comforted already — I think 
I see one of your old happy smiles coming. What 
do you think, sister, isn't that the beginning of a 
smile? 

Sister. Yes, sir. I think it is. 

Rose. Good-bye, sir — thank you for all your 
goodness. I — I {Beginning to sob again. ) 

Mich. No, no, you are forgetting. I must see a 
little smile before you go. Look, Andrew. (Andrew 
turns round.) For your father's sake. When you 
have gone you will like him to remember that the last 
time he saw your face it wore a smile. That's brave ! 
Good-bye ! Good-bye ! 

(Rose with great effort forces a smile and goes off 

with the Sister. A moment or two later she 

is seen to pass the window sobbing in the 

Sister's arms.) 

• Andr. Look ! Oh, sir, was it bound to be in 

public, before everybody who knew her? 

Mich. Believe me, Andrew, if my own sister, if 
my own child had been in your daughter's place, I 
would have counselled her to act as your daughter 
has done. 

Andr. She'll never hold up her head again. 

Mich. Would you rather that she held up her 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 9 

head in deceit and defiance, or that she held it down 
in grief and penitence? Think what you and she 
have endured this last year, the deceit, the agony, the 
shame, the guilt ! 

Andr. I can't think of anything except her stand- 
ing up in the church. I shall never forget it. 

Mich. Tell me you know I would willingly have 
spared you and her if it had been possible. 

Andr. Then it wasn't possible? 

Mich. I have done to you this morning as I would 
wish to be done by if I had followed a course of con- 
tinued deception. 

Andr. Ah, sir, it's easy for you to talk. You 
aren't likely to be tempted, so you aren't likely to 
fall. 

Mich. I trust not ! I pray God to keep me. But 
if ever I did, I should think him my true friend who 
made me confess and rid my soul of my guilt. And 
you think me your true friend, don't you, Andrew? 
{Holding out hand.) Won't you shake hands with 
me? 

(Andrew takes Michael's hand reluctantly, shakes 
it half-heartedly ; is going off at door.) 

Mich, {calls). Andrew, it will be very lonely in 
your own house now your daughter has gone. Come 
and live with me here. There is the large visitors' 
room. Take it for your own, and make this your 
home. You will be nearer to our work, and you will 
be nearer to me, my friend. 



io MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

Mark enters. 

Mark {at door'). Am I interrupting? 

Mich. No. Come in. My little talk with Andrew 
is finished. {To Andrew.) Say you know I have 
done what is right and best for you and her. 

Andr. You've done what you thought was best for 
us, sir. I've never doubted that. I can't see any- 
thing straight or clear this morning. {Exit.) 

Mark. You've had a painful business here? 

Mich. Terrible ! But I was bound to go through 
with it. The whole village was talking of it. I 
believed in her innocence and defended her to the 
last. So when the truth came out I daren't hush it 
up. I should have been accused of hiding sin in my 
own household. But that poor child ! My heart 
bled for her ! Don't let us speak any more of it. 
Tell me about yourself and the work in London. 

Mark. You must come and join us there. 

(Michael shakes his head.) 

Mich. I couldn't live there. Every time I go up 
for a day or two I come back more and more sick- 
ened and frightened and disheartened. Besides, you 
forget my Eastern studies. They are my real work. 
I couldn't pursue them in the hurry and fever of 
London. 

Mark. How are you getting on with the Arabic 
translations ? 

Mich. Slowly but surely. Andrew is invaluable to 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL n 

me. In spite of his bringing up, he has the true 
instincts of the scholar. 

Mark. Well, you know best. Rut we want you in 
London. You'd soon raise the funds for restoring the 
Minster. 

Mich, {shakes his head). I can't go round with 
the hat. 

Mark. How's the work getting on? 

Mich. Very slowly. I'm afraid I shall never live 
to finish it. By the bye, I received fifty pounds anony- 
mously only yesterday. 

Mark. Have you any idea where it came from ? 

Mich. No. The Bank advised me that it had 
been paid to my credit by a reader of my " Hidden 
Life," who desired to remain anonymous. 

Mark. The book is having an enormous influence. 
Nothing else is talked about. And it has gained you 
one very rich proselyte — this Mrs. Lesden. She's 
living here, isn't she? 

Mich. Yes. Curious woman 

Mark. Have you seen much of her? 

Mich. I called, of course. I've met her once or 
twice at dinner. She has called here three or four 
times, and wasted several good hours for me. 

Mark. How wasted? 

Mich. Kept me from my work. I wish the woman 
would take herself back to London. 

Mark. Why ? 

Mich. Her frivolity and insincerity repel me. No 



12 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

— not insincerity. I recall that. For she said one or 
two things that seemed to show a vein of true, deep 
feeling. But on the whole I dislike her — I think I 
dislike her very much. 
Mark. Why? 

Mich. She comes regularly to church 

Mark. Surely there's no very great harm in that 



&* 

Mich. No ; but I don't know whether she's mock- 
ing, or criticising, or worshipping ; or whether she's 
merely bored, and thinking that my surplice is not 
enough starched, or starched too much. 

Mark. She's very rich, and would be an immense 
help to our movement. I should try and cultivate her. 

Mich. I can't cultivate people. What do you think 
of her? 

Mark. A very clever society woman, all the more 
clever that she was not born in society. 

Mich. What do you know of her? 

Mark. Merely what I wrote you in my letter. 
That she was the only daughter of an Australian 
millionaire. Her great-grandfather, I believe, was an 
Australian convict. She was sent to England to be 
educated, went back to Australia, married, lost her 
husband and father, came back to England a widow, 
took a house in Mayfair, entertained largely, gave 
largely to charities, read your book, "The Hidden 
Life," came down to see the country round here, 
made up her mind to live here, and wanted an intro- 
duction to you — which I gave her. 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 13 

Enter Fanny, announcing Sir Lyolf Feversham, an 
English country gentleman, about sixty-five, a little 
old-fashioned in manners and dress. Exit Fanny. 

Sir Lyolf. Michael — Mr. Docwray ! Glad to see 
you. You're talking business, or rather religion, which 
is your business. Am I in the way ? 

Mich. No, we're not talking business. We're dis- 
cussing a woman. 

Sir Lyolf. Aren't women nine-tenths of a par- 
son's business? (Michael looks a little shocked.) 
Excuse me, my dear boy. {To Mark.) I quite 
believe in all Michael is doing. I accept all his new 
doctrines, I'm prepared to go all lengths with him, on 
condition that I indulge the latent old Adam in me 
with an occasional mild joke at his expense. But 
{with great feeling) he knows how proud I am of 
him, and how thankful I am to God for having given 
me a son who is shaping religious thought throughout 
England to-day, and who (with a change to sly hu- 
mour) will never be a bishop — not even an arch- 
deacon — I don't believe he'll be so much as a rural 
dean. What about this woman you were discussing? 
I'll bet — {coughs himself up) — I should say, I'll 
wager — ( Michael looks shocked, Sir Lyolf shrugs 
his shoulders at Mark, proceeds in a firm voice) — 
without staking anything, I will wager I know who 
the lady is — Mrs. Lesden? Am I right? 
Mich. Yes. 



i 4 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

Sir Lyolf. Well, I haven't heard your opinion of 
her. But I'll give you mine — without prejudice — 
{with emphasis) very queer lot. 

Mark. Michael had just said she was a curious 
creature. 

Mich. I don't understand her. 

Sir Lyolf. When you don't understand a woman, 
depend upon it there's something not quite right 
about her. 

Mich. She seems to have immense possibilities of 
good and evil. 

Sir Lyolf. Nonsense. There are all sorts of men, 
but, believe me, there are only two sorts of women — 
good and bad. 

Mich. You can't divide women into two classes 
like that. 

Sir Lyolf. But I do — sheep and goats. Sheep 
on the right hand — goats on the left. 

Mich, {shaking his head). Women's characters 
have greater subtlety than you suppose. 

Sir Lyolf. Subtlety is the big cant word of our 
age. Depend upon it, there's nothing in subtlety. 
It either means hair-splitting or it means downright 
evil. The devil was the first subtle character we meet 
with in history. 

Mich. And he has still something to do with the 
shaping of character in this world. 

Sir Lyolf. I don't doubt it. And I think he has 
very likely something to do with the shaping of Mrs. 
Lesden's. 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 15 

Mich. Hasn't he something to do with the shap- 
ing of all our characters? Don't all our souls swing 
continually between heaven and hell? 

Sir Lyolf. Well, the woman whose soul swings 
continually between heaven and hell is not the woman 
whom I would choose to sit at my fireside or take the 
head of my table. Though I don't say I wouldn't ask 
her to dinner occasionally. That reminds me, how 
long are you staying, Mr. Docwray? 

Mark. Only till Friday. 

Sir Lyolf. You'll dine with me to-morrow evening? 

Mark. Delighted. 

Sir Lyolf. You too, Michael. I'll ask the Stander- 
wicks, and (suddenly) suppose I ask this lady? 

Mich. Mrs. Lesden? I would rather you didn't. 

Sir Lyolf. Why not? If her soul is swinging 
between heaven and hell, it would only be kind of 
you to give it a jog towards heaven. 

Mich. Very well — ask her. But I would rather 
you didn't speak lightly of 

Sir Lyolf. Of her soul ? 

Mich. Of anyone's soul? 

Sir Lyolf. I won't — even of a woman's. But 
I wish they wouldn't swing about. Women's souls 
oughtn't to swing anywhere, except towards heaven. 
Ah, Michael, you must let me have my fling. Re- 
member when I was a boy, religion was a very simple, 
easy-going affair. Parson — clerk — old three-decker 
pulpit — village' choir. What a village choir ! I sup- 



1 6 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

pose it was all wrong — but they were very comfortable 
old days. 

Mich. Religion is not simple — or easy-going. 

Sir Lyolf. No. Subtlety again. I want a plain 
" yes " or " no," a plain black or white, a plain right 
or wrong, and none of our teachers or preachers is 
prepared to give it to me. Oh dear ! This world has 
grown too subtle for me ! I'll step over to Island 
House and ask Mrs. Lesden to dinner to-morrow. 

Mark. I'll come with you and pay my respects to 
her. You don't mind, Michael? 

Mich. Not at all. I want to set Andrew to work 
at once to keep him from dwelling on his trouble. 

Sir Lyolf. I didn't come to the church this morn- 
ing. I felt it would be too painful. ( Glancing up at 
portrait.') What would she have said about it? 

Mich. I think she approves what I have done. 

Sir Lyolf {looks at portrait, sighs, turns away). 
Come, Mr. Docwray. I can't say I like this Mrs. 
Lesden of yours — I wonder why I'm going to ask 
her to dinner. {Exit.) 

Mark {who has been looking intently at portrait) . 
What a wonderful portrait that is of your mother ! It 
seems as if she were alive ! 

Mich. She is. {Exit Mark after Sir Lyolf.) 

Mich, {goes up steps, takes portrait into his hand). 
Yes, I have acted faithfully to my people, have I not ? 
Whisper to me that I have done right to restore to 
this wandering father and child the blessing of a 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 17 

transparent life, a life without secrecy and without 
guile ! Whisper to me that in this morning's work I 
have done what is well pleasing to my God and to 

you. 

Audrie Lesden, about thirty, in a very fashionable 
morning dress, enters at back of window in the 
opposite direction to that in which Sir Lyolf and 
Mark have gone off. At first she seems to be 
watching them off. When she gets to the open 
window, she turns and sees Michael with the 
portrait in his hand. Michael very reverently 
kisses the portrait and places it on table ; as he 
does so he sees her. 

Mich. Mrs. Lesden ! 

Audr. Wasn't that Sir Lyolf who just went out ? 

Mich. Yes. I'll call him back 

Audr. Please don't. 

Mich. But he wishes to speak to you. 

Audr. I don't wish to speak to him. 

Mich. Why not ? 

Audr. I wish to speak to you. 

Mich. About what? 

Audr. About my soul, about your soul, and about 
other people's souls. {Leaning a little in at the win- 
dow. He remains silent, and reserved. All through 
the early part of the scene his demeanour is cold, con- 
strained, and a little impatient. A pause.) I know 



18 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

you make it a rule always to see people about their 
souls. 

Mich, {very coldly). If they are really in need of 
spiritual advice. 

Audr. I think I'm in need of spiritual advice. (A 
pause. He stands cold, irresponsive.} Did you see 
me in church ? 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. The whole thing was delightfully novel. 
(He frowns.) Do you mean to repeat this morning's 
scene ? 

Mich. Scene ? 

Audr. It was a " scene," you know. I felt terribly 
distressed for the poor girl. And yet I envied her. 

Mich. Envied her? 

Audr. (leaning a little more in at the window). 
You must allow she was the heroine of the occasion, 
though you were certainly very impressive yourself, 
and did your part very well. Still, after all, it's the 
man who is to be hanged who is the central figure in 
the proceedings. And the poor little creature looked 
exquisitely pathetic and graceful, and so sweetly inno- 
cent — quite good enough to go to heaven right away, 
I thought. A Sunday-school teacher told me once 
that it is nearly always the good girls who are betrayed. 
Is that so? 

Mich, (coldly). You came to speak to me about 
yourself. 

Audr. So I did. Do you know when I saw that 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 19 

girl standing there and looking so interesting, I felt I 
wouldn't mind making a public confession myself — if 
you thought it would benefit the parish — and if you 
would allow me to wear a special dress for the 
occasion ? 

(Michael turns round quickly as if about to 
speak angrily to her, stops, remains silent.) 

Audr. {musingly). I suppose one couldn't confess 
in anything except black or white. It couldn't be 
done in red or yellow — or blue. Pale grey might do. 
(Pause.) What do you think? 

(Michael does not reply.) 

Audr. (leaning a little more in at the window, in 
a much lower and subtler tone). Don't you find it an 
exquisite pleasure to feel your sense of power over 
your people, especially over us poor women ? 

Mich. When you come to me you are neither 
man nor woman — you are only a soul in sin and 
distress. 

Audr. Oh, no ! I won't be an " it." I insist on 
being a woman, though I don't mind having a soul — 
and in sin and distress, too. And I would save it — 
only I always think it's such a selfish piece of busi- 
ness, saving one's soul, — don't you ? — so unkind to 
all one's neighbours? (He stands half-bored^ half- 
angry. A little pause.) Do you know what I was 
thinking in church this morning? 

Mich. No. 

Audr. I was comparing the delights of three dif- 



20 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

ferent professions, — the soldier's, the doctor's, and the 
priest's. What a glorious joy it must be to ride to 
meet a man who is riding to kill you — and to kill him! 
But I'd rather be a doctor, and play with life and 
death. To have a man in your power, to see him 
lying tossing on his bed, and to think, "This may cure 
him, or it may kill him. Shall I risk it? At any rate, 
if he dies, I shall have learnt so much. I will risk it ! 
And — he dies — No, he lives! I've saved him." 
Wouldn't you like to be a doctor? 

Mich. No. 

Audr. That's because you know what far greater 
joy it is to be a priest. (He turns very angrily.) To 
play with people's souls 

Mich. Play ! 

Audr. You do play with our souls, don't you? 
They're in your hands. To think, "This man, or, say, 
this woman, has an immortal soul. She is vain, silly, 
deceitful, foolish, perhaps wicked, perhaps horribly 
wicked. She'll lose her soul and be eternally lost. 
But if I were to struggle with her for it, rebuke her, 
teach her, plead with her, entreat her, guide her — 
who knows — she's not wholly bad — I might save 
her? Is she worth saving? The worse she is, the 
greater will be my reward and honour for having saved 
her. Shall I do it? This woman's soul is in my 
keeping ! I can choose for her eternal life or eternal 
death. What shall I do ? Shall I save her, or let her 
be lost? " 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 21 

Mich, {conies eagerly to the window). Do you 
mean that? 

Audr. Mean what? 

Mich. That your soul is in my keeping? 

Audr. Not at all. I meant nothing except that 
thoughts like these must constantly stray through a 
priest's mind. Don't they? {Long pause.) Why 
don't you speak? 

Mich, {cold, stern). I have nothing to say. 

{Pause.) 

Audr. {taking out purse, taking out two notes). 
Oh ! I was forgetting — I've brought you a little con- 
tribution for the restoration of your Minster. 

{Putting notes on window-sill. Michael stands 
cold, angry.) 

Audr. Won't you take it? 

Mich. Thank you. No. 

Audr. I think you're a little rude to me. I came 
as a heart-stricken penitent ; you wouldn't accept 
me in that character. Then I came as a pious 
donor. You wouldn't accept me in that. You've 
kept me outside here — you haven't even asked 
me in. 

Mich, {very sternly). Come in! {She looks up, 
uncertain as to his intentions.) (Same cold, stern 
voice.) Please to come in. That way — the outer 
door is open. 

{She goes off, he goes to door left, opens it, she 
co?nes in.) 



22 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

Mich, {the moment she has entered closes door de- 
cisively, then turns round on her very sternly). What 
brings you to this village, to my church, to my house? 
Why are you here? Come to me as a penitent, and 
I will try to give you peace ! Come to me as a woman 
of the world, and I will tell you " The friendship of 
the world is enmity with God." It always has been 
so, it always will be. The Church has no need of you, 
of your pretended devotions, of your gifts, of your pres- 
ence at her services. Go your way back to the world, 
and leave her alone." But you come neither as a peni- 
tent, nor as a woman of the world. You come like — 
like some bad angel, to mock, and hint, and question, 
and suggest. How dare you play with sacred things ? 
How dare you ? ! 

Audr. {very loiu, quiet, amused voice). I do not 
think it seemly or becoming in a clergyman to give 
way to temper. If anyone had asked me I should 
have said it was impossible in you. 

{He stands stem, cold, repellent.) 

Enter Andrew. 

Mich. What is it, Andrew? 

Andr. I thought you were disengaged. {Going.) 

Mich. So I am. I'll come to you at once. 

{Exit Andrew.) 
Mich, {to Audrie). You are right. It is unseemly 
to give way to temper, and perhaps you won't think 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 23 

me rude if I guard myself against it in future by ask- 
ing you not to call upon me until I can be of real 
service to you. Good morning. 

Al dr. Mr. Feversham, Mr. Feversham. (Michael 
turns.) I've been very rude and troublesome. I beg 
your pardon. Please forgive me. 

Mich. Certainly. Pray say no more. 

Audr. I saw you kissing that portrait as I stood at 
the window. It is your mother? 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. What a good woman she must have been ! 
Don't think because I am bad 

Mich. Are you bad? 

Audr. Didn't you say I was ? I don't know whether 
I'm bad or good, but I know that no woman longs to 
be good more than I do — sometimes. 

Mich. Do you indeed? 

Audr. {impulsively) . Let me kiss that portrait ! 
(Leaning forward to do it.) 

Mich, (peremptorily). No. 

(Intercepts and stops her.) 

Audr. Why not? 

Mich. I'd rather you didn't. 

Audr. You don't think I'm good enough. 

Mich. I cannot allow you. 

Audr. Who painted it? 

Mich. A young Italian. My mother's brother is 
a Catholic priest, and at that time he was living at 
Rome. My mother went there for her health when I 



24 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

was three years old. This young Italian saw her and 
asked permission to paint her. She ,came home and 
died of consumption. Then my uncle sent this por- 
trait to my father with the news that the young painter 
had also died of consumption. 

Audr. How strange ! And you've had it ever 
since ? 

Mich. I was only a child when it came. I fell into 
the habit of saying my prayers before it. So when I 
first left home my father gave it to me ; it has been 
with me ever since, at Eton, and Oxford, and in my 
different curacies. 

Audr. Won't you let me kiss it before I go? 

{Leaning towards it.) 

Mich, {preventing her). I'd rather you did not. 

Audr. Why not ? 

Mich. I have a strange belief about that picture. 
I'll hang it up. 

Audr. (a little intei-cepting him). No. Let me 
look at it. Let me hold it in my hands. I won't 
kiss it without your permission. {She takes it and 
looks at it intently .) Tell me — what is your strange 
belief about it? 

Mich. My mother was a deeply religious woman, 
and before my birth she consecrated me to this ser- 
vice as Hannah consecrated Samuel. When she was 
dying she said to me, " I'm not leaving you. I shall 
watch over you every moment of your life. There's 
not a word, or a deed, or a thought of yours but I 



act J MICHAEL AND HIS. LOST ANGEL 25 

shall know it. You won't see me, but I shall be very 
near you. Sometimes my hands will be upon your 
head, but you won't know it ; sometimes my arms 
will be round you, but you won't feel them; some- 
times my lips will be on your face, but you won't 
know that I have kissed you. Remember you are 
watched by the dead." 

Audr. And you believe that you are watched by 
the dead? 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. And that she is with us now — in this 
room ? 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. She is your good angel. 

Mich. She is my good angel. 

Audr. I can understand why you did not wish me 
to kiss her. 

(Michael makes a movement to take the picture.} 

Audr. {retains it). No. Yes, I feel she must be 
in this room. 

Mich. Why? 

Audr. I was full of silly wicked thoughts when I 
came — she has taken them away. 

Mich. Ah, if I dared hope that you would really 
change ! 

Audr. Perhaps I will. ( Very imploringly.') Do 
let me kiss this sweet face. {Pause.) 

Mich. No — at least not now, not yet. Please 
give it back to me. {He takes it.) I'll hang it 



26 MICHAEL AND HIS LUST ANGEL act i 

up. (He fakes it to steps.) Will you hold it for a 
moment? 

(She comes to steps, holds it while he mounts, gives 
it to him.) 

Audr. What &\ wonderful thought that is, that we 
are watched by the dead. It never occurred to me 
before. I wonder what a spirit is like ? (He hangs 
up the picture.) Now she is quite out of my reach. 
(He comes down steps.) Won't you take that money 
for rebuilding the Minster ! It's there on the window- 
sill. (He goes and takes it.) Thank you. 

Mich. Thank you. 

Audr. Then I'm not to call again? Not even 
about my soul? 

Mich. I'm going over to the Island for some time, 
and shall only be back on Sundays. 

Audr. Saint Decuman's Island. You've built your- 
self a house over there, haven't you? 

Mich. The shrine was neglected and decayed. I 
restored it and built myself a couple of rooms round 
it. I've a few books, and just food and drink. I go 
over there sometimes for work and meditation. 

Audr. And yours is the only house on the island ? 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. Isn't it awfully lonely there ? 

Mich, (glancing at picture) . I'm never alone. 

Audr. No, you have your millions and millions of 
good and bad angels, besides hundreds of cheap 
excursionists. 



act I MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 27 

Mich. Yes, in the summer, but they only stay a 
few hours. 

Audr. I can see the smoke from your chimney 
quite plainly in the evening from my drawing-room 
windows. How far is it across? 

Mich. About four miles. 

Audr. I shall get Hannaford to row me over some 
day. Don't look alarmed. I won't come when you 
are there. I should frighten all your good angels 
away. (Michael shows a little impatience.} You 
want to get rid of me. {Going, suddenly turns.) If 
I come to you as a penitent, you won't send me away? 

Mich. Not if I can be of service to you. 

Audr. I seem to have changed my nature since I 
came into this room. 

Mich. How? 

Audr. I don't know. I wonder how many natures 
I have and how often I can change them. 

Mich. I wish you wouldn't speak like that. 

Audr. I won't. ( Very seriously.) You said just 
now that I was playing with sacred things. I am, or 
I was until you spoke about her. ( With warning.) 
Don't let me play with your soul. 

Mich. I don't understand you. 

Audr. You may do me good, but I am far more 
likely to do you harm. 

Mich. How ? 

Audr. I'm not nearly so good a woman as you are 
a man. 



28 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act i 

Mich. But perhaps I may influence you for good. 

Audr. Do you think that you can have any influ- 
ence on my soul without my having an equal influence 
on yours? 

Mich. Action and re-action are equal and opposite. 
You think that law prevails in the spiritual world as 
well as in the material world ? 

Audr. I'm sure it does. So let me go. 

Mich, (suddenly, with great feeling). Oh, if I 
could save you ! 

Audr. You can if you will. I would try so hard if 
you would only help me. But you don't believe that 
I can. 

Mich. What makes you say that? 

Audr. You called me a bad angel — and you don't 
think me good enough to kiss her. {Sidling up to the 
steps ; he makes a deprecatifig movement to prevent her, 
but she takes no noticed) If you knew it would give me 
a splendid impulse to goodness, would you refuse me? 
(She watches him very closely ; he watches her, half 
deprecating, half consenting ; she goes up a step or two ; 
he again makes a deprecating gesture, but does not stop 
her.) Can't you see what an awful effect it would 
have on me if you thought me worthy to be in the 
company of your good angel? It would be almost 
a sacrament ! ( Going up steps. He makes a stronger 
gesture of deprecation.) Ah, you think I'm not 
worthy 

Mich. No, no 



act i MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 29 

Audr. {on top of steps, very seductively). Do save 
me. I'm worth saving. {Whispers.) I may kiss 
her? I may? I may? {He does 710 1 reply. She 
very reverently takes the picture from the wall, turns 
round, kisses it reverently, hangs it up again, comes 
down slowly to him.) Your bad angel has kissed 
your good angel. 

{Exit softly. Michael stands troubled.) 

Curtain 



{Four months pass between Acts I. and II.) 



ACT II 

Scene. — The Shrine on Saint Decuman 's Island in 
the Bristol Channel. A living room built round 
the shrine of the Saint, a fine piece of decayed 
Decorated Gothic now in the back wall of the room. 
A large fireplace down right. A door above fireplace. 
A door left; two windows, one on each side of the 
shrine, show the sea with the horizon line and the 
sky above. A bookcase ; a table; old oaken panelling, 
about seven feet high, all round the room, and above 
them white-washed walls. Red brick floor. Every- 
thing very rude and simple, and yet tasteful, as if it 
had been done by the village mason and carpenter 
under Michael's direction. Time, a September even- 
ing. Discover Andrew Gibbard packing a port- 
manteau, and Edward Lashmar (Father Hilary), 
a Catholic priest, about sixty, very dignified and 
refined. Enter Withycombe, an old boatman. 

Withy. Now, gentlemen, if yu'me ready to start ! 
If yu daunt come sune, us shall lose the tide down. 

Father H. I'm quite ready, Withycombe, as soon 
as I have said " Good-bye " to Mr. Feversham. 
30 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 31 

Withy. Mr. Feversham ain't coming along with us, 
then? 

Andr. No, he stays on the island all the week, and 
you are to fetch him on Saturday morning. 

Withy. Saturday morning. To-day's Wednesday. 
Right you are. Well and good. Saturday morning. 
Yu'me coming on to Saint Margaret's along with us, 
Mr. Gibbard ? 

Andr. Yes — we can find some accommodation 
there for the night, can't we? 

Withy. Well, I warn ye 'tis rough. 

Father H. Rougher than my Master had on his 
first coming here? 

Withy. Well, I waun't say that, but so fur as I can 
judge 'tis about as rough. 

Father H. Then it will do for me. Where is Mr. 
Feversham ? 

Withy. A few minutes agone he wor watching the 
excursion steamer back to Lowburnham. 

Father H. Will you find him and tell him that I 
am waiting to start ? 

Withy. Right you are, sir. Well and good. 

{Exit) 

Father H. Andrew — have you noticed any change 
in Mr. Feversham lately? 

Andr. Change, Father? 

Father H. He seems so restless and disturbed, so 
unlike himself. 

Andr. Does he? 



32 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act ii 

Father H. It's six years since I was in England. 
But he was always so calm and concentrated. Has he 
any trouble, do you know ? 

Andr. He hasn't spoken of any. 

Father H. No. But you're with him constantly. 
Surely you must have seen the difference in him ? 

Andr. Yes. He has changed. 

Father H. How long has he been like this? 

Andr. The last four months. 

Father H. Do you know of any reason for it? 

Andr. He's coming ! 

Enter Michael. 

Mich. You're ready to start, Uncle Ned? 

Father H. Yes. You won't change your mind 
and come with us ? 

Mich. No, I must stay here. ( Glancing at books, 
restlessly.*) I want to be alone. I couldn't be of any 
service to you over at Saint Margaret's ? 

Father H. There is the legend that connects her 
with Saint Decuman — I suppose no more is to be 
learnt of that than we already know ? 

Mich. No. The fisher people only know what 
they have learnt from the guide books. 

Andr. {standing with portmanteau). Have you 
anything more to take to the boat, Father? 

Father H. No, that's all, Andrew. 

Andr. Then I'll take it down and wait for you 
there . ( Exit Andrew with po rtm an tea u.) 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 33 

Father H. Then this is good-bye, Michael? 

Mich. Unless you'll stay over the Sunday at Cleve- 
heddon ? 

Father H. No, I've done my work in England, 
and I must be back among my people. I wanted to 
see the shrines on these two sister islands again before 
I died. I shall leave Saint Margaret's to-morrow 
morning, get back to Cleveheddon, take the after- 
noon train up to London, and leave for Italy on Friday 
morning. You'll come and see me at Majano? 

Mich. When I can. 

Father H. This winter? 

Mich. No, not this winter. I shall be at work at 
once on the restorations now I've got all the money. 

Father H. Strange that it should all come so soon 
within two or three months. 

Mich. Yes, and from such different quarters of 
England — a thousand one day from Manchester — 
five hundred the next from some unheard-of village — - 
and then the last great final gift last week. 

Father H. It looks as if it all came from one 
giver ? 

Mich. Yes, I had thought that. 

Father H. You don't know of any one? 

Mich. I've one or two suspicions. However, 
the great fact is that I have it all, and can set my 
architects to work. 

Father H. Michael — I was asking Andrew just 
now, there is something troubling you ? 



34 



MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 



Mich. No — no. What makes you think that? 

Father H. You are not yourself. {Pause.) Is it 
anything where I can be of help ? 

Mich. There is nothing. {Pause.) There has 
been something. But it is past. (Father Hilary 
looks grave.) You need have no fear for me. 

( Holding out hand. ) 

Father H. {takes his hand, holds it for a long 
while, looks gravely at him). If you should ever 
need a deeper peace than you can find within or 
around you, come to me in Italy. 

Mich. But I am at peace now. {Restlessly, push- 
ing his hand through hair, then a little querulously.) 
I am at peace now. (Father Hilary shakes his 
head.) You think you can give me that deeper 
peace ? 

Father H. I know I can. 

Mich. I may come to you some day. 

(Withycombe /z/ A his head in at door.) 

Withy. Now, sir, if yu plaise, we'me losing the 
tide — us shan't get to Margaret's avore supper-time. 

Father H. I'm coming, Withycombe. 

Mich. Withycombe, you'll come and fetch me on 
Saturday morning. 

Withy. Saturday morning, twelve o'clock sharp, 
I'm here. Right you are, Mr. Feversham. Well and 
good. {Exit.) 

Father H. Good-bye. 

Mich. Good-bye, Uncle Ned. 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 35 

( Very hearty hand-shake. Exit Father Hilary. 
Michael goes to door, stands looking a few 
seconds, comes in, turns to his books.) 

Re-enter Father Hilary. 

Mich. What is it? 

Father H. I don't like leaving you. Come with 
me to-night to Margaret's. 

Mich. Shall I ? Perhaps it would be best — Wait 
a minute. 

Withy, {voice heard of). Now, Mr. Lashmar, if 
you plaise. sir — we'me losing the tide. 

Mich. Don't wait, I'm safe here. Good-bye. 

Father H. (slowly a?id regretfully). Good-bye. 
{Exit slowly. Michael watches Father Hilary 
off ; stays at door for some time, waves his 
hand, then closes door.) 

Mich. Now I shall be at peace ! {Takes out letter 
from his pocket.) Her letter ! I will not read it ! 
{Puts it back in pocket, kneels and lights the fire.) 
Why did you come into my life? I did not seek 
you ! You came unbidden, and before I was aware 
of it you had unlocked the holiest places of my heart. 
Your skirts have swept through all the gateways of my 
being. There is a fragrance of you in every cranny 
of me. You possess me ! {Rises.) No ! No ! 
No ! I will not yield to you ! ( Takes up book, seats 
himself at fire, reads a moment or two. ) You are 
there in the fire ! Your image plays in the shadows 



36 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act ii 

— Ob, my light and my fire, will you burn me up with 
love for you ? {Rises, sighs.) I'm mad ! {Pause, very 
resolutely.} I will be master of myself — I will be 
servant to none save my work and my God ! {Seats 
himself resolutely, reads a moment or two, then drops 
book on knees.) The wind that blows round here may 
perhaps play round her brow, the very breath that 
met my lips as I stood at the door may meet hers on 
the shore yonder. {Rises, flings book on table, goes to 
window; takes out letter again, holds it undecidedly.) 
Why shouldn't I read it? Every stroke of it is graven 
on my heart. — ( Opens it.) " Dear keeper of souls in 
this parish, I have thought so much of our talk last 
night. I'm inclined to think that I have a soul after 
all, but it is a most uncomfortable possession. I 
believe if someone gave me an enormous impulse I 
might make a saint or a martyr, or anything that's 
divine. And I believe there is one man living who 
could give me that impulse." " One man living who 
could give me that impulse — " " But I hope he 
won't. Frankly, you may save me at too great cost 
to yourself. So trouble yourself no further about me. 
But if after this, you still think my wandering, dangling 
soul worth a moment of your ghostly care, come and 
lunch with me to-morrow, and I will give you the 
sweet plain butter-cakes that you love, on the old blue 
china. And that our salvation may not be too easy, I 
will tempt you with one sip of the ancient Johannis- 
burg." And I went — yes, I went. "But for your 



MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 



37 



own sake — I speak with all a woman's care for your 
earthly and heavenly welfare — I would rather you did 
not come. Let it be so. Let this be farewell. Per- 
haps our souls may salute, each other in aimless 
vacancy hereafter, and I will smile as sweet a smile 
as I can without lips or cheeks to smile with, when 
I remember as I pass you in the shades that I saved 
you from your bad angel, Audrie Lesden. P.S. Be 
wise and let me go." I cannot ! I cannot ! Yet if 
I do not — what remains for me? Torture, hopeless 
love, neglected duty, work cast aside and spoilt, all 
my life disordered and wrecked. Oh, if I could be 
wise — I will ! I will tear out this last one dear sweet 
thought of her. ( Goes to fire, tears up the letter in 
little pieces, watches them burn.) It's done ! I've 
conquered ! Now I shall be at peace. 

(Sits himself resolutely at table, reads. A little 
tap at the door, he shows surprise ; the tap is 
repeated, he rises, goes to door, opens it. At 
that moment Audrie's face appeals at the 
right-hand window for a moment. He looks 
out, stays there a moment or two, closes door, 
seats himself again at table, reads. The tap 
is repeated ; he rises, Audrie appears at door, 
he shows a moment of intense delight which 
he quickly subdues. 
Audr. May I come in? (Pause.) You are busy 
-I'll go- 

Mich. No — (She stops on threshold.) Come in. 



38 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act n 

She enters. He stands motionless at table. Sufiset 
without. It gradually grows darker. 

Mich. What brings you here ? 

Audr. You did not expect me. You aren't accus- 
tomed to entertain angels unawares — even bad ones. 

Mich, {his voice thick and a little hoarse). Your 
boat, your companions ? 

Audr. I have no boat, and no companions. 

Mich, {horrified, delighted). You're alone? 

Audr. Quite alone. 

Mich. How did you come here ? 

Audr. By the simplest and most prosaic means 
in the world. This morning I took the train to Low- 
burnham to do some shopping. As I was coming 
back to the station, a boy put this little handbill into 
my hand. {Showing a little yellow handbill.) After- 
noon excursion to Saint Decuman 's and Saint Marga- 
ret's Isles. I had an impulse — I obeyed it. I tele- 
graphed to Cleveheddon for a boat to meet me here 
at six — {takes out watch) — it only wants ten min- 
utes — and took the excursion steamer. They all 
landed here for half-an-hour. I hid myself till after 
the steamer had gone. Then I came up here to your 
cottage. I heard some voices, so I hid again — who 
was here ? 

Mich. Only my secretary and my uncle Ned. 

Audr. The Catholic priest. I saw a boat leaving 
— it was they ? 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 39 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. They're not coming back? 

Mich. No. 

Audr. You're annoyed with me for coming? 

Mich. No, but wasn't it a little — imprudent ? 

Audr. Oh, I must do mad things sometimes, just 
to preserve my general balance of sanity. Besides, 
my boat will be here in ten minutes. {Pause.) 

Audr. How strange we should be here alone ! 

Mich. The only two beings on this island — we two ! 

Audr. And our two souls. 

Mich. I wish you wouldn't jest with sacred things. 

Audr. I won't. {Suddenly, impulsively.) I want 
to be good ! Help me to be good ! You think I'm 
foolish and light and frivolous ! Well, perhaps I am, 
but when I'm with you I'm capable of anything, 
anything — except being an ordinary, average, good 
woman. 

Mich. But isn't that all that is required of a 
woman ? 

Audr. Perhaps. It's rather a damnable heritage, 
isn't it? And I'm not a barn-door fowl. 

Mich. What are you? 

Audr. Just what you like to make of me. Don't 
think I'm flattering you. Don't think I'm bold and 
unwomanly. I'm only speaking the truth. You have 
changed me. I'm ready to do anything, believe any- 
thing, suffer anything that you bid me ! To-night I'm 
on a pinnacle ! I shall either be snatched up to the 



4 o MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act ii 

skies, or tumble into the abyss. Which will it fte, I 
wonder ? 

Mich, {after a struggle, in a calm voice). Neither, 
I trust. I hope you will take your boat back in ten 
minutes, have a good passage across, a comfortable 
dinner from your pretty blue china, and a sound 
night's rest. And to-morrow you will wake and forget 
this rather imprudent freak. 

Audr. Oh, you won't tread the clouds with me ! 
Very well ! Down to the earth we come. I can be 
as earthly as the very clay itself. But I thought you 
wanted me to be spiritual. 

Mich. I want you to be sincere, to be yourself. 

Audr. Very well. Tell me how. You are my 
ghostly father. 

Mich. No, you've never allowed me to be a priest 
to you. 

Audr. I've never allowed you ? 

Mich. And I've never dared. 

Audr. Why not? 

Mich. Because you've never allowed me to forget 
that I am a man. 

Audr. Very well. Don't be a priest to me — at 
least not now. Tell me some one thing that you 
would wish me to do, and I'll do it ! 

Mich. In that letter you wrote me 

Audr. Did you keep it? 

Mich. No, I destroyed it. 

Audr. Destroyed it ! 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 41 

Mich. In that letter you said it would be better 
for us if we did not meet again 

Audr. No. I said it would be better for you if 
we did not meet again. 

Mich. Better for me ? 

Audr. Yes, and worse for me. I came here to- 
night to warn you 

Mich. Against what? 

Audr. Myself. I've done something that may 
endanger your peace for ever. 

Mich. What do you mean? 

Audr. Sometimes I laugh at it, sometimes I'm 
frightened. I daren't tell you what I've done. I'll 
go. ( Goes to door, opens it. ) 

Mich. No. {Stops her.) Mrs. Lesden, what have 
you done against me ? You don't mean your gifts to 
the Minster? 

Audr. My gifts — what gifts ? 

Mich. During the last four months I've constantly 
received large sums for the restoration of the Minster, 
and last week a very large sum was sent me, enough 
to carry out all the work just as I wished. 

Audr. Well? 

Mich. It was you who sent it all. 

Audr. I must see if my boatman has come. 

Mich, {stopping her). No. Why did you send the 
money — so many different sums from so many differ- 
ent places? 

Audr. Because that gave me dozens of pleasures 



42 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act ii 

instead of one, in sending it. And I thought it would 
give you dozens of pleasures instead of one, in re- 
ceiving it. 

Mich. I knew it was you ! How glad I am to owe 
it all to you ! Words couldn't tell you how grateful 
I am. 

Audr. And yet you wouldn't walk the clouds with 
me for a few minutes? 

Mich. You know that I would do anything in my 
power for your best, your heavenly welfare. 

Audr. I don't think 1 care much for my heavenly 
welfare just at this moment. You tumbled me off my 
pinnacle, and here I am stuck in the mud. {Looking 
off at the open door.) Look ! That boat is half-way 
to Saint Margaret's. 

Mich. Yes, they sleep there to-night. 

Audr. What a queer-looking man your secretary 
is. Is he quite trustworthy? 

Mich. Quite. Why? 

Audr. I caught him looking at you in a very 
strange way a week or two back. 

Mich. He's devoted to me. 

Audr. I'm glad of that. How far is it to Saint 
Margaret's ? 

Mich. Three miles. 

Audr. Do you believe the legend about Saint 
Decuman and Saint Margaret? 

Mich. That they loved each other? 

Audr. Yes, on separate islands, and never met. 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 43 

Mich. They denied themselves love here that they 
might gain heavenly happiness hereafter. 

Audr. Now that their hearts have been dust all 
these hundreds of years, what good is it to them that 
they denied themselves love ? 

Mich. You think 

Audr. I think a little love on this earth is worth a 
good many paradises hereafter. It's a cold world, 
hereafter. It chills me to the bone when I think of 
it ! (Shivers a little and comes away from the door.) 
I'm getting a little cold. 

Mich, {placing chair) . Sit by the fire. 

{She sits near fire, which is blazing up; he goes 
and closes door. ) 

Audr. (putting on some logs). Do I know you well 
enough to make your fire for you ? 

Mich. I hope so. 

(She sits ; he stands above her for some seconds, 
watching her keenly ; a long pause.) 

Audr. You were looking at me. What were you 
thinking of? 

Mich. I was wondering what memories are stored 
in that white forehead. 

Audr. Memories? (Long sigh.) A few bright 
ones, and many sad ones. 

Mich. Your past life was not happy ? 

Audr. (a little shudder of recollection) . No. And 
yours ? Tell me 

Mich. What ? 



44 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act ii 

Audr. Something about your past life, something 
you've never told to a living creature. 

Mich. When I was twenty 

Audr. Stay — what were you like when you were 
twenty? {Shuts her eyes, puts her hand over them.) 
Now I can see you when you were twenty. 

Mich. Is there anyone with me ? 

Audr. No, I can't see her. What was she like? 
Fair or dark? 

Mich. Fair, with changing grey eyes that could be 
serious or merry as she pleased, and fine clear features, 
and the sweetest provoking mouth 

Audr. I hate her. Who was she? 

Mich. Miss Standerwick's niece. She stayed there 
all the summer that year. 

Audr. Was that a happy summer? 

Mich. The happiest I have ever known — till this. 

Audr. Ah ! 

Mich. I used to go to evening church and follow 
them home, and wait outside till I could see the 
candle in her window. When it went out I used to 
walk home. 

Audr. Across those fields where we walked the 
other night ? 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. I'll never walk that way again. Go on. 

Mich. One night as I was waiting, she came out 
suddenly. I couldn't speak for trembling. At last I 
found my tongue, and we talked about silly common- 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 45 

place things. When she was going in I dared to 
breathe, "Give me one kiss." She didn't answer. I 
just touched her cheek with my lips, and I whispered, 
" Good-night, Nelly." She said, " Good-night, Mike." 

Audr. She called you Mike? 

Mich. I was called Mike when I was a boy. 

Audr. And your next meeting? 

Mich. She was called away early the next morning 
to her father's deathbed. Her mother went abroad. 
I never saw her again. Tell me something about 
your past life. 

Audr. Can you see me when I was eight? I was 
a pretty little brown maid, and I set all aflame the 
heart of a cherub aged ten, with strong fat legs and 
curly red hair. His sister was my dearest friend. 
He spent all his pocket-money in buying sugar-plums 
for me, and gave them to her to give to me. She ate 
them herself, and slandered me to him, for she said I 
was false. He kicked her on the eye, and was sent 
far — far away to school. This was the first tragedy 
of my life. Now tell me some more of your life. 
You have had other romances, darker, deeper ones? 

Mich. Nothing that I dare show. I have told you 

of the one love of my youth. And you Have 

you had darker, deeper romances? 

Audr. I was unhappy without romance. I would 
show you all my heart, all my thoughts, all my life, if 
I could do it as one shows a picture, and let it speak 
for itself. I wonder if you'd condemn me 



46 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act ii 

Mich. Condemn you ! 

Audr. I don't think you would. You have never 

guessed 

Mich. Guessed 



Audr. What a world there is within oneself that 
one never dares speak of ! I wish to hide nothing 
from you. I would have you know me through and 
through for just the woman that I am, just that and 
no other, because, don't you see — I don't want to 
cheat you of a farthing's-worth of esteem on false 
pretences — I want you to like me, Audrie Lesden, 
and not some myth of your imagination. But if you 
were armed with all the tortures of hell for plucking 
the truth about myself from my lips, I should still 
hide myself from you. So, guess, guess, guess, 
grand inquisitor — what is here {tapping her fore- 
head) and here ! {Putting her hand on her 
heart.) You'll never guess one thousandth part of 
the truth ! 

Mich. But tell me something in your past life that 
you have never told to another creature. 

Audr. I have two great secrets — one is about 
yourself, one is about another man. 

Mich. Myself ? Another man ? 

Audr. My husband. 

Mich. You said you had been unhappy. 

Audr. I married as thousands of girls do, care- 
lessly, thoughtlessly. I was married for my money. 
No one had ever told me that love was sacred. 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 47 

Mich. Nobody ever does tell us that, till we hear 
it from our own hearts. 

Audr. I suppose it was my own fault. I was very 
well punished. 

Mich. How long were you married ? 

Audr. Two years. 

Mich. And then your husband died ? 

Audr. He went away from me. I never saw him 
again — alive. {Passionately.} And there's an end 
of him ! 

Mich. I won't ask you what that secret is. I 
would wish you to keep it sacred. But your secret 
about myself? Surely I may ask that? 

Audr. I have sold you to the devil. 

Mich. What? 

Audr. I have sold myself, too. 

Mich. Still jesting ? 

Audr. No, I did it in real, deep earnest. 

Mich. I don't understand you. 

Audr. Six months ago I was tired, gnawn to the 
very heart with ennui, and one hot restless night I 
happened to take up your book, "The Hidden Life." 
It came to me — oh, like a breath of the purest, fresh- 
est air in a fevered room. I thought I should like to 
know you. I got up early, took the first morning 
train down here, looked about the place, saw the 
Island House was to let, and rented it for three years. 

Mich. Well? 

Audr. I got Mr. Docwray to give me an introduc- 



48 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act ii 

tion to you. You annoyed me, you were so cold and 
priestlike. Each time I saw you, you piqued and 
angered me more and more. I longed to get some 
power over you. At last one day after you had been 
so frozen and distant a little black imp jumped into 
my brain and whispered to me. I said to the devil, 
" Give this sculptured saint to me, and I'll give both 
our souls to you." 

Mich. But you didn't mean it ? 

Audr. Yes. I said it with all my heart, and I bit 
my arm — look — (Showing her arm.) I made the 
teeth meet. There's the mark. If there is a devil, 
he heard me. 

Mich. And you think he has given me to you ? 

Audr. The next time I saw you, you let me kiss 
your mother's portrait. 

Mich. Ah ! 

Audr. But you don't really believe there is a 
devil? Why don't you speak? Why don't you laugh 
at me and tell me it's all nonsense? I haven't really 
given the devil power over your soul ? 

Mich. No devil has any power over any soul of 
man until the man himself first gives him entrance 
and consent. 

Audr. And you haven't ! Say you don't care for 
me. 

Mich. How can I say that? 

Audr. You must ! I'm not strong enough to leave 
you of my own free will. I shall hang about you, 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 49 

worry you, tease you, tempt you, and at last, destroy 
you. Don't let me do it ! Beat me away from you, 
insult me, do something to make me hate you ! Make 
me leave you ! 

Mich. When I love you with all my being? 

Audr. {shows great delight). And you dare go 
on ? It's an awful delight to think that a man would 
dare to risk hell for one ! There aren't many men 
who would dare lose this world for the woman they 
love — how many men are there that would dare to 
lose the other? 

Mich. We must lose this world, for I am vowed 
away from all earthly things. But why should we lose 
the other? Why should we not make our love the 
lever to raise our souls ? You do love me ? 

Audr. Love is hardly the word. It is more like 
— if a man could create a dog, and be her master, 
friend, father, and God, I think she would feel towards 
him something of what I feel towards you. You have 
first made me know what love is, what life is. You 
have changed me thoroughly — no, you have changed 
half of me thoroughly — one half is still worthless, 
silly, capricious, hollow, worldly, and bad — that's my 
old self. She is gradually withering up under your 
influence, that old Audrie Lesden. The other half is 
looking out of my eyes at you now ! Look ! do you 
see the new Audrie Lesden that is your daughter and 
your creature ? Aren't you proud of her ? 

Mich. I shall be proud of her when she is full 



50 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act n 

grown and dares to leave me of her own free will, 
because she loves me, and because I am vowed to 
Heaven ! 

Audr. Do I tempt you? I'll go. You love me. 
That's enough, or it should be enough. I'll get back 
to London to-morrow, and strangle the new Audrie. 
Then the old Audrie will come back again, and live 
the old weary, dry, empty life — and grow old and 
wrinkled and heartless and perhaps — rouged 

Mich. Why do you tear me so? What do you 
want of me here or hereafter? Take it ! It's 



yours 

Audr. You dare go on — now you know ? 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. Ah ! I thought it was only women who 
dared hell for love. I won't take your sacrifice — I 
will leave you. 

Mich. You will ? Yes, it must be so ! My work, 
my vows — I cannot, may not taste of earthly love. 
Oh, it's cruel to dash the cup from my lips ! (Pause ; 
then very calmly?) You are right ! I feel that we are 
choosing heaven or hell for both our souls this night ! 
Help me to choose heaven for you, and I'll help you 
to choose heaven for me. 

Audr. Good-bye, my love, for ever. Be brave — 
and very cold to me, now. Be like marble — and 
death. 

Mich, (takes her hand ; a very long pause ; then 
speaks very calmly). It is victory, isn't it? We have 



act ii MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 51 

conquered ? I'll go down to the bay and see if your 
boat has come. {By this time it is dark outside.) 

Audr. Half-past six. I shall have a cold, dark 
voyage. 

Mich. And it is just a little rough. But Hannaford 
is a careful boatman. 

Audr. It's not Hannaford who is coming for me. 
I telegraphed for Withycombe. 

Mich, {pause — very pale and cold) . Withycombe? 
But you always employ Hannaford ? 

Audr. Yes ; and I did write out one telegram to 
him, and then I thought I should like to go back in 
the boat that always takes you. So I tore up the 
telegram to Hannaford, and telegraphed to Withy- 
combe. 

Mich. Withycombe ? 

Audr. Yes, what's the matter? 

Mich. He lives alone. When he goes out, he 
locks up his cottage. Your telegram will wait at the 
post office. 

Audr. Why ? 

Mich. Withycombe has gone over to Saint Mar- 
garet's with Gibbard and my uncle. They stay there 
the night. 

Audr. Your own boat ? 

Mich. I had it towed back last week, so that I 
couldn't be tempted to come to you. 

Audr. Then ? 

Mich, {looks at her). No boat will come to-night. 



52 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act ii 

{Looks at her more intently.} No boat will come 
to-night ! {Takes both her hands in his, very slowly.) 
No boat will come to-night ! 

Very slow curtain. 



( Two nights and a day — from Wednesday evening to 
Friday morning — pass between Acts II and III.) 



ACT III 

Scene. — The Vicarage parlour, as in first act. Morn- 
ing. Enter Michael, haggard, troubled, with self- 
absorbed expression, the expression of a man trying 
to realize that he has committed a great and irrevo- 
cable sin ; he stands for some moments helpless, 
dreamy, as if unconscious of his whereabouts ; then 
looks round ; his eyes fall upon his mother's picture, 
he shudders a little, shows intense pain. At length 
he goes up the steps, takes the picture down, places it 
on the floor with its face against the wall, carefully 
avoiding all the while to look at it. He then moves 
to table in the same dreamy, helpless, self-absorbed 
state, sits, looks in front of him. Enter Andrew, 
comes up behind him. 

Mich. Oh, Andrew Well ? 

Andr. {coming up to him) . I want to consult you 
on that passage in the Arabic — if you can spare the 
time. 

Mich. Bring the manuscripts here. (Michael un- 
consciously looks at his hands.) What are you looking 
at? 

53 



54 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act hi 

Andr. Nothing. Your hands are blistered? 
Mich. I did a little rowing — the other day. Bring 
the manuscripts. (Andrew goes to door.) 

Mich. i\ndre\v — (Andrew stops) — I was very 
restless — did you hear me stirring in the night? 
Andr. Stirring ? 

Mich. Yes, I couldn't sleep. I got up about one 
and went out — walked about for some hours — it 
was nearly light when I came in again. Did you hear 
me? 

Andr. (pauses, then answers). No. 

(Is about to go off at right door when Fanny 
ente?-s left. He stops.) 
Fanny. Mrs. Lesden wishes to see you for a min- 
ute or two about one of her cottagers. 

(Andrew watches Michael keenly, but unobtru- 
sively.) 
Mich, (after a little start of surprise, in a tone of 
affected carelessness). Show her in. 

(Exit Andrew, right. Exit Fanny, left. Michael 
rises, shows great perturbation, walks about, 
watches the door for her entranced) 

Re-enter Fanny, left, showing in Audrie. 
Fanny. Mrs. Lesden. 

(Exit Fanny. Michael and Audrie stand look- 
ing at each other for some seconds ; then he 
goes to her, takes her hand, kisses it with great 
reverence, motions her to a chair ; she sits. 



act in MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 55 

He holds out to her the palms of his hands 
with a rueful smile, shows they are much blis- 
tered as if with rowing. ) 

Audr. Poor hands ! 

Mich. I'm not used to rowing. {Pause.) 

Audr. I didn't thank you. 

Mich. Thank me ! 

Audr. {pause). Wasn't it a terrible voyage, terrible 
and delightful ? But we ought to have been drowned 
together ! 

Mich. Oh, don't say that — in sin ! To be lost in 
sin ! 

Audr. I'd rather be lost with you than saved with 
anyone else. 

Mich. You mustn't speak like this 

Audr. It won't be right, you know, unless we are 
lost or saved together, will it ? 

Mich. Hush ! Hush ! {Pause.) 

Audr. You're sorry? 

Mich. No. And you? 

Audr. No. Is all safe, do you think? 

Mich. Yes, I believe so. 

Audr. Didn't that strange secretary of yours think 
it curious that you came back on Thursday instead of 
Saturday? 

Mich. No. I explained that when Withycombe 
brought me your telegram I thought it better to 
return at once in case you had started to come, and 
had been somehow lost. 



56 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act hi 

Audr. Let us go carefully through it all as it hap- 
pened, to make sure. To-day is Friday. On Wednes- 
day I telegraphed to Withycombe to be at the landing- 
place at Saint Decuman's with a boat at six o'clock 
in the evening to bring me back home from there. 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. But being a strange creature and quite un- 
accountable for my actions, I changed my mind, and 
instead of coming to Saint Decuman's I went up to 
London, stayed there all day yesterday, and returned 
by the night mail, reaching home at seven this morning. 

Mich. Yes. 

Audr. Meantime Withycombe has gone to Saint 
Margaret's with your uncle, stays there Wednesday 
night and does not get my telegram till his return 
home yesterday afternoon. He consults my servants, 
who know nothing of my whereabouts, consults Mr. 
Gibbard, who advises him to go to Saint Decuman's 
and see if I am there. He reaches Saint Decuman's 
last evening. You are surprised when he shows you 
the telegram — you explain that I am not there, that 
I have not been there, that you've seen nothing of 
me. ( Very tenderly.) Dear, I felt so sorry for you 
when I heard you blundering and stammering through 
your tale to Withycombe. 

Mich. Why ? 

Audr. I knew the pain and shame it caused you to 
say what wasn't true. I wished I could have told all 
the lies for you. 



act in MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 57 

Mich. No, no. Isn't the truth dear to you? 

Audr. Not in comparison with you. Besides, I 
shall be let off my fibs and little sins very cheaply, 
much more cheaply than you'll be, great serious 
person. 

Mich. You grieve me to the heart when you speak 
like this 

Audr. {penitent). I won't! I won't ! I'll be very 
good and quite serious. Where were we ? Well, you 
explain to Withycombe that I have never been to Saint 
Decu man's, and at the same time you also change 
your mind and return with him last evening instead 
of staying till Saturday. 

Mich. You've seen Withycombe and told him you 
went to London ? 

Audr. Yes. 

Mich. He suspects nothing? 

Audr. No, I made it all quite clear to him. 

Mich. And your servants ? 

Audr. They're used to my absences. They think 
nothing of it. 

Mich. Then all is safe. The matter will never be 
heard of again — except 

Audr. Except ? 

Mich. In our two hearts, and in the High Court 
where such cases are tried. 

( With an inclination of the head and finger 
towards heaven.) 

Audr. Don't preach, and — don't regret. 



58 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iil 

Mich. I won't — only how strange it all is ! 

Audr. What ? 

Mich, {quiet, calm voice throughout, smiling a little). 
How men try to make their religion square with their 
practice ! I was hard, cruelly hard, on that poor little 
girl of Andrew's. I was sure it was for the good of 
her soul that she should stand up and confess in 
public. But now it comes to my own self, I make 
excuses; I hide, and cloak, and equivocate, and lie — 
what a hypocrite I am ! 

Audr. Ah, you're sorry ! 

Mich. No, I'm strangely happy and — dazed. I 
feel nothing, except my great joy, and a curious bitter 
amusement in tracing it all out. 

Audr. Tracing what out? 

Mich. The hundred little chances, accidents as we 
call them, that gave us to each other. Everything 1 
did to avoid you threw me at your feet. I felt myself 
beginning to love you. I wrote urgently to Uncle 
Ned in Italy, thinking I'd tell him and that he would 
save me. He came — I couldn't tell him of you, but 
his coming kept Withycombe from getting your tele- 
gram. I went to Saint Decuman's to escape from you. 
You were moved to come to me. I sent away my own 
boat to put the sea between us ; and so I imprisoned 
you with me. Six years ago I used all my influence 
to have the new lighthouse built on Saint Margaret's 
Isle instead of Saint Decuman's, so that I might keep 
Saint Decuman's lonely for myself and prayer. I kept 



act in MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 59 

it lonely for myself and you. It was what we call a 
chance I didn't go to Saint Margaret's with Andrew 
and my uncle. It was what we call a chance that you 
telegraphed to my boatman instead of your own. If 
any one thing had gone differently 

Audr. (shaking her head). We couldn't have 
missed each other in this world. It's no use blaming 
chance or fate, or whatever it is. 

Mich. I blame nothing. I am too happy. Besides, 
Chance? Fate? I had the mastery of all these 
things. They couldn't have conquered me if my own 
heart hadn't first yielded. You mustn't stay here. 
(Turning towards her with great tenderness.) Oh, 
I'm glad that no stain rests upon you through 
me 

Audr. Don't trouble about me. I have been 
thinking of you. Your character? 

Mich. My character ! My character ! My char- 
acter ! 

Audr. (glances up at the place where the portrait 
had hung) . Where is she ? 

(He points to the picture on the floor.) 
. Mich. I daren't look at her. I must hide it 
until 

Audr. Until ? 

Mich. Until we have done what we can to atone 
for this. 

Audr. What ? 

Mich. Repent, confess, submit to any penance 



60 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act hi 

that be enjoined us. And then if and when it shall be 
permitted us — marriage. 

Audr. Marriage ? 

Mich. Retirement from all who know us, and life- 
long consecration of ourselves to poverty and good 
works, so that at the last we may perhaps win forgive- 
ness for what we have done. 

Audr. Marriage ? 

Re-enter Andrew with manuscripts. 

Andr. I beg pardon. I thought Mrs. Lesden had 
gone. {Puts manuscripts on table and is going off. ) 

Audr. I am just going, Mr. Gibbard. 

Andr. {turns and speaks to her). I met a 
stranger on the beach yesterday evening. He in- 
quired for you and the way to your house. 

Audr. Indeed. 

Andr. He asked a great many questions about 
you. 

Audr. What questions? 

Andr. How you lived in this quiet place, and who 
were your friends, and where you were yesterday. 

Audr. Did he give his name? 

Andr. I didn't ask for it. I suppose he's staying 
in the place. I saw him at the door of the George 
later in the evening. 

Audr. One of my London friends, I suppose. 
What did you reply to his questions? 

Andr. I told him Mr. Feversham was one of your 



act in MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 61 

friends, but as I didn't know where you were yester- 
day, of course I couldn't tell him, could I? 

{Looks at he?-, exit.) 

Audr. Did you notice that? 

Mich. Notice what? 

Audr. The look that man gave me as he went 
out. Does lie suspect us? 

Mich. Impossible. 

Audr. I feel sure he does. Send for him and 
question him at once. I'll go. 

Enter Fanny with a letter. 
Fanny. For you, ma'am. 

( Givi?ig letter to Audrie, who glances at it, shows 
a sharp, frightened surprise, instantly con- 
cealed, and then stands motionless.) 
Fanny. The gentleman's waiting for an answer. 
Audr. {very quiet, cold voice). I'll come at once. 

{Exit Fanny.) 
Mich. What's the matter? 

Audr. Nothing. Question that man. Find out 
if he knows anything. I'll come back as soon as I 
can. {Exit, without opening letter.) 

Mich, {follows her to door, closes it after her, then 
goes to right door, calls) . Andrew. 

Re-enter Andrew. 

Mich. What is this passage you're in difficulty 
about ? 



62 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act hi 

Andr. {comes to him with old manuscripts} . What's 
the matter? 

Mich. My head is dizzy this morning. 

Andr. Didn't you say you couldn't sleep? 

Mich. What time did you get back from Saint 
Margaret's yesterday? 

Andr. About twelve. 

Mich. You saw my uncle off by the afternoon 
train ? 

Andr. Yes. 

Mich. And then? (Andrew does not reply.) You 
were surprised to find me coming back with Withy- 
combe instead of staying till Saturday ? 

Andr. No. 

Mich. Withycombe's message about the telegram 
a little disturbed me. {A little pause, watching An- 
drew.) I thought perhaps Mrs. Lesden might have 
started to come to Saint Decuman's {pause, still watch- 
ing Andrew), and been lost on the way. 

Andr. Did you? 

Mich. She is such a strange, flighty creature, that 
I should scarcely be surprised at anything she took it 
into her head to do. 

Andr. {looking him full in the face) . She went up 
to London, didn't she ? 

Mich, {wincing a little) . Yes. 

Andr. And came back through the night by the 
mail? 

Mich. Yes. Why do you look at me like that? 



act in MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 63 

Andr. I beg your pardon. Is there any other 
question you'd like to ask me? 

Mich. Question? About what? 

Andr. About Mrs. Lesden — or anything that's 
troubling you. 

Mich. Troubling me? I'm not troubled about 
anything. 

Andr. Oh! I thought perhaps you were. {Going.) 

Mich. Andrew. (Andrew^/i) I've been think- 
ing about — about Rose. 

Andr. Have you ? 

Mich. Perhaps I was wrong in urging her to 
confess. 

Andr. It isn't much good thinking that now, is it? 

Mich. No, except to ask you to forgive me, and to 
say that you don't cherish any ill-feeling against me 
on that account. 

Andr. I forgive you, and I don't cherish any ill- 
feeling against you on that or any account. 

Mich. I may trust you entirely, Andrew? 

Andr. If you doubt it — try me. 

Mich. Try you? 

Andr. Didn't I tell you to ask me any question 
you like ? 

Mich, {alarmed). What do you mean? {Pause, 
looks at Andrew.) Enough. I trust you absolutely 
— {looks at him) — in everything. 

Andr. You may. {Is again going.) 

Mich. No, Andrew, nothing has occurred — I was 



64 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act hi 

afraid — it seemed so strange — this telegram business. 
What are you thinking about me ? 

Andr. Take care, sir. Don't betray yourself to 
anybody but me. 

Mich. Betray myself ? 

Andr. You're a worse bungler at lying than I was. 
Don't look like that, or other people will guess. Don't 
give way. You're safe. Nobody but me suspects 
anything. Your character is quite safe — her char- 
acter is quite safe. They're both in my keeping. 

Mich, {stares helplessly at him). How did you 
know? 

Andr. I've suspected for some time past 

Mich. You were wrong. There was nothing to 
suspect. It was a chance, an accident — there was 
no intention to deceive. What made you guess? 

Andr. When Withycombe brought the telegram 
to me I guessed something was wrong. I heard you 
go out in the middle of the night. I followed you 
down to the beach ; I saw you put off; I waited for 
you to come back. I was on the top of the cliff just 
above you when you landed with her. I saw you 
come on here, and I watched her take the road to the 
station, and saw her come back to her home as if she 
had come in by the early morning train. 

Mich. What are you going to do? 

Andr. Nothing. Don't I owe everything I am and 
everything I have in this world to you? I shall never 
breathe a word of what I know to a living soul. 



act in MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 65 

Mich. Thank you, Andrew. Thank you. And 

you'll be sure above all that she is safe 

Andr. As safe as if I were in the grave. You go 
your way, just the same as if I didn't know. 
Mich. Andrew. 

Andr. {comes back). Sir 

Mich, (breaking down). I was harsh and cruel to 
Rose. I punished her more than she deserved. I 
was a hard, self-righteous priest ! I hadn't been 
tempted myself then. Send for her to come home 
again ! Comfort her and give her the best place in 
your heart. Write at once. Let her come back to- 
morrow ! Oh, what weak, wretched Pharisees we are ! 
What masks of holiness we wear ! What whited sepul- 
chres we are ! Send for her ! Make up to her for 
all she has suffered ! Let me ask her pardon ! Oh, 
Andrew, have pity on me ! Forgive me, forgive me ! 
(Bending his head in tears. Andrew steals out 
of the room. A long pause. Audrie appears 
at window in the same place as in Act I., looks 
in, sees him, taps the window, he goes up to it.) 
Audr. Let me in. Quickly. I want to speak to 
you. 

(He goes to door, opens it; a moment later she 
enters.) 
Mich. Well? 

Audr. Why didn't you take my warning? Why 
didn't you beat me, drive me, hound me away from 
you as I told you? 

F 



66 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act hi 

Mich. What now? 

Audr. Say you'll forgive me before I tell you ! 
No, don't forgive me ! 

Mich. I don't understand you. Is anything dis- 
covered ? 

Audr. What does that matter? Oh, don't hate 
me. If you say one unkind word to me I shall kill 
myself. Read the letter which came here to me just 
now. (He takes the letter wonderingly.) 

Mich. Whom did it come from? 

Audr. My husband. 

Mich. Your husband? {She nods.) Your hus- 
band ! He is alive? (She nods.) 

Audr. (with a laugh). Didn't I tell you I should 
ruin you body and soul? (He stands overwhelmed.) 
Why do you stand there ? Why don't you do some- 
thing? (Laughing at him.) I say, ghostly father, we 
make a pretty pair, you and I, don't we ? What shall 
we do? Confess in white sheets and candles together, 
you and I? Why don't you do something — (Laugh- 
ing at him.) And you stand there like a stone saint. 
(Comes up to him.) Kill me and have done with me ! 

Mich. You said your husband died after two years. 

Audr. I said I never saw him again - — alive. I 
thought then that I never should. 

Mich. But — you believed he was dead. You 
believed he was dead — (She does not reply.) You 
didn't know the night before last that your husband 
was living? 



act in MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 67 

Audr. Don't I tell you to kill me and have done 
with it. 

Mich, {horrified). You knew he was living? 

Audr. {very imploringly) . I love you, I love you. 
Say one word to me ! Say one word to me ! Say 
you forgive me. 

Mich. I forgive you. {Stands overwhelmed.) Take 
this letter ( Offering it.) 

Audr. I didn't mean to do this. Do make ex- 
cuses for me. We lived unhappily together. When 
I came into all my money I bargained with him that 
we would never see each other again. It was a fair 
bargain — a contract. He went away to America — 
I gave out he was dead. From that time to this I 
have never had a thought of his return. He was dead 
to me. He has no right to come and spoil my life. 
Read that letter from him. 

Mich. No — take it. ( Gives the letter back.) 

Audr. Tell me what to do. 

Mich. I'm not fit to advise you. 

Audr. What can we do ? 

Mich. I don't know. We're up a blind alley with 
our sin. There's no way out of this. 

Audr. I shall defy him. 

Mich. No. 

Audr. Yes. A bargain's a bargain. I shall go 
back and defy him. I'll never see him again. But 
then — what then ? What will you do ? 

Mich. Don't think of me. 



68 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act m 

Audr. Speak to me. Say one word. Oh, it has 
been on the tip of my tongue so many times to tell 
you all, but I couldn't bear to lose your love, so I 
deceived you. {He walks about pe?'plexed. She goes 
to him very gently and coaxingly.) Say you aren't 
sorry — say that deep down in your inmost heart you 
aren't sorry for what is past ! 

Mich. Sorry? No. God forgive me. I'm not 
sorry. I can't be sorry. 1 wish I could. 

Audr. {coming to him). Ah, now I know you love 
me ! If you only dare be as bold as I dare 

Mich. Bold ? 

Audr. We love each other. Our loves and lives 
are in our own hands. 

Mich, {i-epulses her, braces himself to stem resolve, 
very coldly and commandingly). Listen! These are 
perhaps the last words I shall ever speak to you. The 
past is past. There's no way out of that. But the 
future is in our power. Can't you see, woman, that 
we are half-way down the precipice? We'll go no 
further. From this moment we part; I toil back to 
repentance and peace one way, you toil back another. 
So far as God will give me grace I'll never think of 
you from this moment — I'll spend all my life in put- 
ting a gulf between you and me. You do the same — 
ask only one thing for yourself and me, that we may 
forget each other. 

Audr. {looks at him, smiles, sighs, then as she is 
going off). I was right about man's love. You are 



act in MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 69 

all cowards. There's not one of you that doesn't 
think first of his comfort, or his pocket, or his honour, 
or his skin, or his soul, and second of the woman he 
thinks he loves. Forget you? (A Ziffle laugh.) Do 
you think that possible? Do you think 1 was jesting 
with you when I gave myself to you? Forget you? 
{A little laugh.) My memory is good for such 
trifles. Forget you? ! 

Mich, {with a wild revulsion) . Oh, take me where 
you will ! I have no guide but you ! Heaven, hell, 
wherever you go, I shall follow. Be sure of that. 
But won't you be my better angel, now I've lost her : 
If you love me as you say, you can yet be the master 
influence of my life, you can yet save yourself through 
me, and me through you. Won't you make our love 
a monument for good ? Dearest of all, I'm at your 
feet — I think you come from heaven, and I'm all 
obedience to you. You are my angel. Lead me — 
Lead me, not back to sin — Lead me towards heaven 
— You can even now ! 

Audr. What do you wish me to do? 

Mich. Go back to your duty and to deep repent- 
ance. Have strength, dearest. These are not idle 
words — duty, purity, holiness. They mean some- 
thing. Love is nothing without them. Have courage 
to tread the hard road. Leave me. 

Audr. If I leave you now, shall we meet one day 
— - hereafter ? 

Mich. Yes. 



7 o MICHAEL AND MIS LOST ANGEL act hi 

Audr. You're sure? You do believe it? 

Mich. With all my heart. 

Audr. And you'll stay here and carry on your 
work, restore the Minster, and let me think that I'm 
helping you. 

Mich. I can't do that now. 

Audr. Yes. 

Mich. No. 

Audr. Yes. 

Mich. But with that money — your money ! 

Audr. Many churches are built with sinners' money. 
Do this for me. 

Mich. If I dared — if it would come to good. — 
You know how dear a hope it has been to me all my 
life through. 

Audr. Do it, because I ask it. You will ? 

Mich. And you'll leave me, leave this place, be- 
cause I ask it. You will? 

Audr. I love you. I obey you. 

{She comes to him.) 

Mich. No, I daren't come near to you. You'll go? 
{He opens the door ; she passes out ; re-enters.) 

Audr. Listen to this. Whatever happens, I shall 
never belong to anybody but you. You understand ? 
(Michael bows his head.) I shall never belong to 
anybody but you, Mike. 

{She goes out again. He closes door, goes up to 
window. She passes. He watches her off, 
stays there some moments. 



act in MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 71 

Re-enter Andrew. Michael comes from window; the 
tivo men stand looking at each other. 

Andr. You won't begin work this morning, I sup- 
pose? 

Mich, {firmly). Yes. (Goes to table, motions 
Andrew to one chair, seats himself opposite. They 
take up the manuscripts.) Where is the place? 

Andr. Fifty-first psalm, verse three. (Michael 
winces, turns over the manuscript. ) Have you found 
it? What are you looking at? 

Mich, (gets up suddenly). I can't bear it. 

Andr. Can't bear what? 

(Michael stands looking at him with terror.) 

Andr. (rises, comes to him). Don't I tell you that 
all is safe. I shan't blab. Nobody shall ever know. 

Mich. But you know ! 

Andr. I shall never remind you of it. 

Mich. But you do, you do ! Your presence re- 
minds me. 

Andr. Shall I leave you now and come again by- 
and-by ? 

Mich, (with an effort). No, stay. (Points to seat. 
Andrew seats himself.) You've sent for Rose to 
come home? 

Andr. No. 

Mich. No ? 

Andr. I don't want to have her in this place where 
everybody knows about her. 



72 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act hi 

Mich. Won't you send for her, Andrew — to please 
me? 

Andr. She's well enough where she is. {Pointing 
to the manuscripts.) Shall we go on? 

Mich. What ought I to do, Andrew? 

Andr. Don't you know what you ought to do ? 

Mich. What ? 

Andr. Mete out to yourself the same measure you 
meted to others. 

Mich. Confess — in public. I can't! I can't! 
I daren't ! I'm a coward, a weak miserable coward ! 
Don't judge me harshly, Andrew ! Don't be hard on 
me ! {Covering his face wih his hands.) 

Andr. {cold, firm). Come, sir ! shall we get on 
with our work? {Reading manuscript.) "For I 
acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever 
before me." 

(Michael uncovers his face and sits staring at 
Andrew, who sits cold and grim on the other 
side of the table.) 

Very slow curtain. 

{A year passes between Acts III. arid IV.) 



ACT IV 

Scene. — The Chancel of the Minster church of Saint 
Decuman at Cleveheddon, a beautiful building of 
Decorated Gothic a7'chitecture with signs of recent 
restoration. The altar and reredos, approached by 
steps, face the audience, who take up the same posi- 
tion towards it as spectators in the nave would do. 
Behind the altar a long vista of columns, arches, 
roof, and stained glass windows. An organ is built 
in left wall of the chancel at a considerable height. 
On both sides of the chancel are handsome high 
carved oak stalls. A large open place in front of 
the altar steps is flanked on each side by the tran- 
septs, which run to right and left of spectators and 
are filled with chair seats so far as can be seen. A 
small door in the north wall of the left transept 
leads to the organ loft. The whole church is most 
lavishly decorated with banners, hangings, scrolls, 
and large frescoes, and is smothered with flowers as 
if in readiness for a church festival. Large brass 
candlesticks on altar with lighted candles. The 
altar covered with flowers. Time, about nine on 
an autumn night. An organ voluntary is being 
73 



74 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

played as curtain rises. Enter Michael from tran- 
sept. He has aged much, is very pale and emaciated. 
The voluntary ceases and the organ boy, a refined 
lad about fifteen, comes from small door in wall of 
left transept. 

Walter {carelessly) . -Good-night, sir. 
Mich, {stopping him, puts his hand on the boy's head). 
Good-bye, Walter. {Pause, still detaining him, with 
considei-able feeling.) Good-bye, my dear lad. 

{Sighs, movers away from him. The boy shows 
slight respectful surprise and exit along tran- 
sept. The Organist with keys enters from the 
little door, looks round the church admiringly. ) 
Organist. Everything ready for the ceremony to- 
morrow ? 

Mich. Yes, I think, everything. 
Organist. I was just putting the finishing touches 
to my music. How beautiful the church looks ! You 
must be very proud and happy now your work is 
complete. 

Mich. Not quite complete. I've to put the finish- 
ing touches to my part — to-morrow. 

Andrew enters rather suddenly from transept. 

Andr. Can I speak to you for a moment? 
Organist. Good-night. {Going.) 

Mich, {detains him). Thank you for all you have 
done for me, and for the church, and for her services. 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 75 

{Shakes hands warmly. Exit the Organist by 
transept.} 

Mich. Well? 

Andr. I thought you'd like to know — Mrs. Lesden 
has come back to Cleveheddon, and she has brought 
a lady friend with her. 

Mich. I know. 

Andr. You've seen her? 

(Michael looks at him with great dignity.} 

Andr. I beg your pardon. 

Mich. I've not seen her. 

Andr. I beg your pardon. It's no business of 
mine. ( Going.} 

Mich, {quietly). Yes, it is business of yours. 

Andr. What do you mean ? 

Mich. Haven't you made it the chief business of 
your life all this last year? 

Andr. How? I've kept my word. I've never 
reminded you of it. 

Mich. You've never allowed me to forget it for a 
single moment. Every time you've spoken to me, or 
looked at me, or crossed the room, or passed the 
window, every time I've heard your step on the stairs, 
or your voice speaking to the servants, you've accused 
me. If you had been in my place I would have been 
very kind to you, Andrew. 

Andr. How did you treat my girl ? 

Mich. I did what I thought was best for her 
soul. 



76 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

Andr. Then why don't you do what is best for 
your own soul ? 
Mich. I shall. 
(Andrew looks at Michael in startled inquiry^) 

Enter by transept Docwray and Sir Lyolf. Sir 
Lyolf is in evening dress under summer ove?'- 
coat. Docwray points out the decorations to Sir 
Lyolf. 

Andr. Why have you sent for Rose to come back 
to Cleveheddon ? 

Mich. I wish her to be present at the services to- 
morrow. She is almost due. Go to the station and 
meet her. Bring her to me here. 

(Sir Lyolf and Docwray saunter up towards 
Michael and Andrew. Andrew stands 
perplexed. ) 
Mich, (firmly, to Andrew). Bring her to me here. 
(Andrew goes off through transept, turns to look 
at Michael before he goes off.) 
Sir Lyolf. You didn't turn up at dinner? 
Mich. I was too busy. 
Sir Lyolf. All prepared for to-morrow? 
Mich. Yes, I think. 

Sir Lyolf. So it seems Mrs. Lesden has come 
down from town. 

Mich. So I understand. 

Sir Lyolf ( Michael is listening intently) . I thought 
we had seen the last of her when the long-lost hus- 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 77 

band returned and took her off to London. By the 
way, what has become of her husband ? 

Mark. He has gone back to South America. 

(Michael is listening intently.) 

Sir Lyolf. Gone back to South America? 

Mark. He only stayed three weeks in England. 
It is said that she has pensioned him off — he is to 
keep to his hemisphere, and she is to keep to hers. 

Sir Lyolf. I don't like it ! 

Mark. Don't like what ? 

Sir Lyolf. I don't like women who pension off 
their husbands to live in South America. 

Mich. Do you see much of her in town ? 

Mark. Not much. About every two months she 
sweeps into church in a whirlwind of finery and per- 
fume, gives me a ridiculously large sum for the offer- 
tory, makes some most irreverent joke, or else pretends 
to be deeply religious 

Mich. Pretends ? 

Mark. What can it be but pretence? Look at 
her life this last year. 

Mich. What of it ? 

Mark. It has been one continual round of gaiety 
and excitement except when she was ill. 

Mich. She has been ill ? 

Mark. Yes, and no wonder. 

Mich. Why? 

Mark. She goes everywhere, gives the most extrav- 
agant parties, mixes with the fastest, emptiest, London 



78 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

set. And she has taken for her companion a silly, 
flighty little woman, Mrs. Cantelo. 

Sir Lyolf. I don't like it ! Why has she come 
back to Cleveheddon just now? 

Mark. To be present at the dedication service 
to-morrow, I suppose. 

Sir Lyolf. Michael 

Mich. Well? 

Sir Lyolf. You know that everybody is asking 
where all the money came from for these magnificent 
restorations ? 

Mich. It was sent to me anonymously. The giver 
wishes to remain unknown. 

Sir Lyolf. Yes ! Yes ! That's what you've told 
us. But of course you know who it is ? 

Mich. I mustn't speak of it. 

Sir Lyolf. Forgive me. 

Mich. Let's say no more. I'm glad you came 
here to-night. I've been very much perplexed by a 
confession that has been made to me recently. A 
priest — you know him, Mark — he is to be present 
to-morrow — a priest some time ago discovered one 
of his people in a course of lying and deception, and 
insisted upon a very severe penalty from the man. 
And now the priest tells me, that in order to save one 
very dear to him, he himself has lately been practising 
exactly the same course of lying and deception. He 
came to me for advice. I said, " You must pay ex- 
actly the same penalty that you demanded from your 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 79 

parishioner." But he objects — he says it will bring 
disgrace on his family, and disgrace on our cloth. 
He urged all manner of excuses, but I wouldn't listen 
to him. He wishes to be present at the dedication 
service to-morrow. I've refused him. Have I done 
right? 

Sir Lyolf. Yes, I should say so. 

Mark. Was it a just penalty? 

Mich. Yes, I believe so — the just, the only pen- 
alty, in my opinion. Have I done right? 

Mark. Yes, certainly. 

Mich. I'm glad you both think that. To-morrow 
before the dedication service begins, I shall stand 
where I'm standing now and confess that I have been 
guilty of deadly sin and deceit. Then I shall go out 
from this place and never return. 

( They come away from him, staring at him in 
speechless surprise for some moments.} 

Sir Lyolf. But — Good Heaven ! — what have you 
done ? 

Mich, {after a long pause}. Guess. 

Sir Lyolf. But you won't proclaim yourself ? 

Mich. Yes. 

Sir Lyolf. But your career — your reputation — 
your opportunities of doing good 

Mark. Have you thought what this will mean to 
you, to us, to the church? 

Mich. I have thought of nothing else for many 
months past. 



8o MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

Sir Lyolf. Surely there must be some way to 
avoid a public declaration. (Michael shakes his 
head.) You know I don't speak for myself. My 
day is nearly done, but you're in the full vigour of 
life, with a great reputation to sustain and increase. 
Don't do this — for my sake, for your own sake, for 
the sake of Heaven, don't do it ! 

Mich. I must. 

Mark. What are the circumstances? 

Mich. I can't tell you. I wouldn't have told you 
so much except that I knew I might trust both of 
you never to hint or whisper anything against — 
against any but myself. If you should guess — as most 
likely you will — the name of my companion in sin, 
it will never cross your lips ? I may ask that of you ? 

Sir Lyolf. You know you may. 

Mark. Of course we shall say nothing. 

Sir Lyolf. But — but {Sits (town over- 
whelmed.) 

Mark. Can't we talk this over further? Have you 
considered everything? 

Mich. Everything. I have known for many months 
that this must come. I have tried to palter and spare 
myself, but each time the conviction has returned 
with greater and greater force, " You must do it there, 
and then, and in that way." 

Mark. But you've repented? 

Mich. Most deeply. I have fasted and prayed. 
I have worn a hair shirt close to my skin. But my 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 81 

sin remains. It isn't rooted out of my heart. I can't 
get rid of its image. 

Mark. Its image? 

Mich, {same calm, tranquil, matter-of-fact tone). 
I believe that every sin has its exact physical image. 
That just as man is the expression of the thought of 
God, so our own thoughts and desires and aims, both 
good and bad, have somewhere or the other their 
exnct material counterpart, their embodiment. The 
image of my sin is a reptile, a greyish-green reptile, 
with spikes, and cold eyes without lids. It's more 
horrible than any creature that was ever seen. It 
comes and sits in my heart and watches me with 
those cold eyes that never shut, and never sleep, and 
never pity. At first it came only very seldom ; these 
last few months it has scarcely left me day or night, 
only at night it's deadlier and more distorted and 
weighs more upon me. It's not fancy. Mark, I 
know, I know, that if I do not get rid of my sin, my 
hell will be to have that thing sitting beside me for 
ever and ever, watching me with its cold eyes. But 
{hopefully) I shall be rid of it after to-morrow. 

Mark. My poor fellow ! 

Sir Lyolf {rising, coming back to Michael). 
Michael, can't you postpone this? Can't it be at 
some other time ? Not in the very hour which should 
be the proudest and happiest of your life ? 

Mich. There is no other hour, no other way. 
{Looks at them both, takes both their hands affection- 



82 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

atcly.) Tell me {very piteously) that you neither of 
you love me the less, — or at least say that you love 
me a little still, after what I've told you. 

Sir Lyolf. Don't you know? 

Mark. How can you ask that? 

Andrew and Rose appear in the transept. 
Mich. (A? Andrew). One moment, Andrew. {To 
his father.) I've a word or two to say to Andrew. 

Sir Lyolf. Come and stay the night with me and 
let us talk this over. 

Mich. No, I must be alone to-night. Good-night, 
dear Mark. (Mark wrings his hand.) 

Sir Lyolf. You are resolved to go through with 
this? It must be? (Michael bows his head.) 

Sir Lyolf. I can't be here to-morrow. I couldn't 
face it. But {with great affection) I shan't be far 
away when you want me. {Very warm handshake.) 
Come, Mr. Docwray. 

{Exeunt Sir Lyolf and Docwray by transept.) 
Andr. {bringing Rose to Michael). I've brought 
her. 

(Rose is in a Protestant sister's dress ; she is very 
pale and her manner is subdued. She comes 
slowly and reverently to Michael, and is going 
to bend to him. He takes her hands and 
raises her.) 
Mich. No. You mustn't bend to me. I've sent 
for you, Rose, to ask your pardon. 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 83 

Rose. My pardon ? 

Mich. I made you pass through a terrible ordeal 
last year. Will you forgive me ? 

Rose. What should I forgive? You were right. 
You said it would bring me great peace. And so it 
has — great peace. 

Mich. And you wouldn't undo that morning's 
work ? 

Rose. No. It seems I died that morning and left 
all my old life in a grave. This is quite a new life. 
I wouldn't change it. 

Mich. Andrew, do you hear that? 

Andr. Yes. 

Mich. I was right, then? I was right? You are 
happy ? 

Rose. Yes, I am happy — at least, I'm peaceful, 
and peace is better than happiness, isn't it? 

Mich. Yes, peace is best ! Peace is best ! I shall 
find it too, some day. Andrew, she has forgiven me. 
Can't you forgive me ? We may never see each other 
again on this side the grave. Don't let us part in anger ! 

Andr. Part ? 

Mich. As soon as I can arrange my affairs I shall 
leave Cleveheddon. 

Andr. But your work ? 

Mich. My work is ended. I'll see that you and 
Rose are sufficiently provided for. 

( Taking their hands, trying to join them ; Andrew 
holds aloof.) 



84 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

Andr. No. I can't take any favour from you. 

Mich. It's no favour. I've trained you to a special 
work which has unfitted you for everything else. It 
is my duty to provide for your old age. 

Andr. I can't take any favour from you. 

Mich. Old comrade {leaning on Andrew's shoul- 
der; Andrew draws away), old comrade (draws 
Andrew to hint), we had many happy days together 
in the summer of our life. Now the autumn has 
come, now the winter is coming, I'm setting out on 
a cold, dark journey. Won't you light a little flame 
in our old lamp of friendship to cheer me on my way? 
You'll take my gift — you'll take it, and make a home 
for her? 

Andr. {bursts out). You'll break my heart with 
your kindness ! I don't deserve it ! I was a half- 
bred, starving dog. You took me in, and, like the 
hound I am, I turned and bit the hand that fed me. 
Let me be ! Let me be ! 

Mich. Rose, speak to him. 

Rose. Father, you are grieving Mr. Feversham. 

Andr. I'll do whatever you tell me. But don't 
forgive me. 

Mich. Take him home, Rose. I parted you. Let 
me think I have restored you to each other. 

(Joining them.) 

Andr. (to Michael). I can't say anything to-night. 
I never was good enough to black your shoes. I can't 
thank you. I can't speak. Good-night. Come, Rose ! 



alt iv Michael and his lost angel 85 

(Michael shakes Rose's hand very tenderly. 
Exeunt Rose and Andrew by transept. 
Michael watches them off, goes to altar.) 
Mich, {alone). One thing more and all is done. 
(Looking round the church. ) And I must give you up ! 
Never enter your doors, never lead my people through 
you in chariots of fire, never make you the very pres- 
ence-chamber of God to my soul and their souls who 
were committed to me! Oh, if I had been worthy ! 
{A little pause. A woman's laugh is heard in the 
t?'ansept opposite to that by which Andrew and 
Rose have gone off. Michael withdraws to 
the side of chancel, where he is seen by the 
audience, during the following scene, but is 
hidden from Audrie and Mrs. Cantelo.) 

Audrie enters from transept in magnificent evening 
dress, cloak, and jewellery, and carrying a large 
basket of roses. Her features are much paler and 
sharpened, and she shows a constant restlessness 
and excitement. 

Audr. {looks round, calls out) . Somebody is here ? 
{Pause, calls out.) Somebody is here? No? {Speaks 
down transept.) You may come in, Milly. 

Milly Cantelo, a fashionable little woman, enters at 
transept, looking admiringly round the church. 

Audr. There's nobody here except {raising her 
voice) a stone saint {pointing up to carved figure) , and 



86 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

he can't hear, because he has only stone ears, and he 
can't feel, because he has only a stone heart. 

(Michael shows intense feeling.} 

Milly {looking round). Isn't it gorgeous? 

Audr. H'm — yes {Raises he?' voice.) I can't 

bear that stone saint. Look how hard and lifeless he 
is. In a well-regulated world there would be no room 
for angels or devils, or stone saints, or any such griffins. 

Milly. Audrie, you are queer to-night. You'll be 
ill again. 

Audr. Yes, duckie, I hope so. 

Milly. What's the matter with you? 

Audr. Life's the matter with me, I think, old girl. 
I've got it badly, and I don't know how to cure myself. 

Milly. I wish you wouldn't talk nonsense, and run 
about on silly errands in the dark. 

Audr. I won't for long. When my head is tightly 
bandaged in a white cloth, I can't talk any more non- 
sense, can I? And when my feet are comfortably 
tucked up in my final night-gown I can't run after 
stone saints in the dark, can I ? 

Milly. Oh, you give me the creeps I can't imagine 
why you wanted to come out to-night. 

Audr. To decorate the church. 

Milly. Don't you think it's decorated enough? 

Audr. {looking). No, it wants a few more touches. 
I must just titivate a cherub's nose, or hang a garland 
on an apostle's toe, just to show my deep, deep 
devotion 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 87 

Milly. Your deep, deep devotion? 

Audr. My deep, deep love, my deep, deep wor- 
ship, my deep, deep remembrance. 

Milly. Of what? 

Audr. The church, of course. 

Milly. What a heap of money all this must have 
cost ! Who gave it all? 

Audr. I gave two hundred pounds when I lived 
here last year. 

Milly. I wonder who gave all the rest ! 

Audr. I wonder ! 

Milly. Mr. Feversham must have some very de- 
voted friends. 

Audr. So it seems. 

Milly. Did you know him very well when you 
lived here? 

Audr. Not very well. 

Milly. What sort of a man is he? 

x^udr. Oh, a very cold, distant man — a good deal 
of the priest about him, and as much feeling as that 
stone figure up there. 

Milly. You didn't like him ? 

Audr. Oh, I liked him well enough. But I don't 
think he cared much for me. I dare say he's forgot- 
ten all about me by this time. Milly 

{Bursts into tears.) 

Milly. What is it ? 

Audr. I'm not well to-night. I oughtn't to have 
come here. Milly — I never forget anybody. If I 



88 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

had once loved you I should love you for ever. If 
you were wicked, or unfortunate, or unfaithful, it 
would make no difference to me. Kiss me, Milly — 
say you believe me. 

Milly. You know I do, darling. 
Audr. {very passionately) . I can be constant, Milly 
— I can ! Constant in my friendship, constant in my 
love ! Oh, Milly, I'm the most wretched woman in the 
world ! 

Milly. You're hysterical, dear. 

Audr. No, I'm forsaken. Nobody loves me ! 

( Sobbing. Gestu re fro m M I c ha e l . ) 
Milly. Poor Audrie ! 

Audr. Let me be a few minutes by myself. I want 
to be quite alone. Go home and wait for me there. 
Milly. I don't like leaving you. 
Audr. (getting her off at ti-ansept) . Yes — go, dear. 
I shall be better soon. Do leave me. 
Milly. You won't be long? 
Audr. No — I'll come soon. 

(Accompanying her along tra7isept. Exit Milly by 
transept. Audrie stands listening. Michael 
comes forward a step or two.) 
Audr. (in the transept). Are you there? 

(He comes forward ; she goes towards him ; they 
stand for a moment or two looking at each 
other.) 
Audr. Are you deaf? I thought it was only your 
memory that was gone. 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 89 

Mich. Why have you come here? 

Audr. Mayn't I come into my own church? And 
such a sinner as I am ? 

Mich. Forgive me. You know how welcome I 
would make you — if I dared. 

Audr. Then you don't dare? Then I'm not wel- 
come? 

Mich, {troubled). Yes! Yes! Very welcome! 
The Church owes much to you. 

Audr. I think she does, for she has robbed me of 
your love. Why have you sent back all my letters 
unopened ? 

Mich. Can't you guess what it cost me to return 
them? {Pause.) What have you been doing all this 
last year? 

Audr. Doing? Eating my heart. Racing through 
my life to get to the end of it. Skipping and chatter- 
ing from Hyde Park Corner to the Inferno by a new 
short cut. What have you been doing? 

Mich. Trying to repent and to forget. 

Audr. Ah, well — I haven't been wasting my time 
quite so foolishly as you after all. 

Mich. Will you never be serious? 

Audr. Yes — soon. 

Mich. You've been ill? 

Audr. Oh, my dear spiritual doctor, you don't 
know how ill I've been. I get up every morning 
without hope, I drag through the day without hope, 
I go to this thing and that, to this party, to that recep- 



9 o MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

tion, to the theatre, to church, to a pigeon-shooting 
match, to the park, to Ascot, to Henley — here, there, 
everywhere, all without hope. 

Mich. What is it you want? 

Audr. I want to live again ! I've never lived but 
those few months when we were learning to love each 
other ! I want to feel that fierce breeze on my cheek 
that blew us together ! Do you remember when we 
stood on the cliff hand in hand? And we shrieked 
and laughed down the wind like mad children? Do 
you remember? 

Mich. No. 

Audr. No? Nor the wonderful pale sunrise, with 
the lemon and green lakes of light, and then the path 
of diamonds all across the sea ? Don't you remember ? 

Mich. No. 

Audr. How strange you don't remember ! Oh, 
my God, if I could forget ! 

Mich, {apart from her). Oh, my God, if I could 
forget ! {A long pause. He comes to her.) I have 
one awful thought — I am bound to you — There 
is but one of us — I never felt it more than at this 
moment — And yet the awful thought comes to me 

— if by any decree we should be put asunder here- 
after — if we should be parted then ! 

Audr. Don't you dread being parted now — now 
this moment ? Don't you dread being unhappy here 

— here on this earth ? 

Mich. I will not think of that. I have vowed ! 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 91 

Audr. You don't love me ! You don't love me ! 
You don't love me ! 

Mich. If I had ten thousand worlds I'd sell them 
all and buy your soul. But I will keep the vow I have 
vowed. You are the holiest thing on earth to me. 
I will keep you white and stainless from me. 

Audr. You'll never forget me. 

Mich. I have forgotten you. 

Audr. You'll never forget me. 

Mich, {same cold tone, going up the altar steps) . I 
have forgotten you. 

{Stands with his hack to her J c or a few moments.) 

Audr. {with a gesture of resignation). You'll let 
me put a hunch or two of flowers about the church 
before I go? 

Mich. If I asked you not 

Audr. I should obey you. 

Mich. I do ask you not 

Audr. Very well. It's hard lines that I mayn't 
decorate my own church. 

Mich. I have another request to make — a favour 
to beg of you. 

Audr. It's done, whatever it is. But make it some 
great thing — something very hard and desperate, that 
I may show you there's nothing I would not do if 
you ask it. 

Mich. It's something very simple. I'm going to 
ask you not to be present at the dedication service 
to-morrow. 



92 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 
Audr. But I came on purpose 



Mich. I beg you not. I have a strong reason. 
You won't come? 

Audr. Not if you wish me to stay away. Shall I 
see you after to-morrow? 

Mich. After to-morrow I leave Cleveheddon for 
ever. 

Audr. Where are you going? 

Mich. I don't know. 

Audr. It doesnt matter, I shall find you out. 

Mich. You'll follow me ? 

Audr. Yes — all over this world, and the ten 
thousand others. I shall follow you. You'll find me 
always with you, clawing at your heart. Au revoir. 
( Takes up her basket of roses, going out with them by 
transept, stops.) Do let me put some flowers on the 
altar — just to remind you. Your memory is so bad, 
you know. 

(He raises his hand very quietly and turns his 
back on her. She stands very quiet and hope- 
less for a few seconds, then takes up the basket 
of flowers, goes a step or two towards transept, 
turns.) 

Audr. I'm going to be very ill after this. {He 
stands at altar in an attitude of prayer, his back to 
her.) Do you hear, I'm going to be very ill ? There's 
a little string in my heart — I've just heard it snap. 
(Pause?) If I were dying and I sent for you, would 
you come? 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 93 

Mich, {after a long pause, very quietly). Yes. 

{Pause.) 
Audr. And that's all ? And that's all ? {He stands 
unmoved at altar, his back to her. She takes a large 
red rose out of the basket, throws it towards him ; it 
falls on the white marble altar steps.) There's a 
flower for to-morrow ! Do put it on the altar for me ! 
You won't? You won't? {No answer.) It is hard to 

be turned out of my own church — It is hard 

{Exit Audrte by transept with the basket of 
flowers. A sob is heard, Michael turns 
round. A door is heard to close. He puts 
out the altar lights, throws himself on altar 
steps. The curtains fall. 

The falling of the curtains signifies the passing of 
the night. 

A peal of joyous church bells followed by organ 
music and singing. The curtain rises and 
discovers the church in broad daylight and 
filled with worshippers. Andrew and Rose 
are at the corner in prominent positions. Au- 
drie's flower is lying on the altar steps. A 
processional hymn is being sung. A proces- 
sion of surpliced priests file up the aisle and 
take their places in the chancel, walking over 
Audrie's rose. Michael follows at the end of 
the procession ; as he reaches the altar steps, 
he turns, very pale and cold, and speaks in a 
low, calm voice.) 



94 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act iv 

Mich. Before this service begins and this church 
is re-consecrated I have a duty to perform to my peo- 
ple. {Great attentio7i of all.) I have often insisted 
in this place on the necessity of a life of perfect open- 
ness before God and man. I have taught you that 
your lives should be crystal clear, that your hearts 
should be filled with sunlight, so that no foul thing may 
hide therein. I have enforced that with others, be- 
cause I believe with my heart and soul that it is the 
foundation of all wholesome and happy human life. 
I stand here to affirm it to-day in the presence of God 
and you all. I stand here to affirm it against myself 
as I formerly affirmed it against another. I stand 
here to own to you that while I have been vainly 
preaching to you, my own life has been polluted 
with deceit and with deadly sin. I can find no 
repentance and no peace till I have freely acknowl- 
edged to you all that I am not worthy to continue my 
sacred office, not worthy to be the channel of grace to 
you. It was the dearest wish of my life to restore this 
beautiful temple, and to be Heaven's vicar here. I 
have raised it again, but I may not enter. I dare not 
enter. I have sinned — as David sinned. I have 
broken the sanctity of the marriage vow. It is my 
just sentence to go forth from you, not as your guide, 
your leader, your priest ; but as a broken sinner, hum- 
bled in the dust before the Heaven he has offended. 
I bid you all farewell. I ask your pardon for having 
dared to continue in my office knowing I had profaned 



act iv MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 95 

and desecrated it. It now remains for me to seek the 
pardon of Heaven. Let the service continue without 
me. Let no one leave his place. Pray for me all of 
you ! I have need of your prayers ! Pray for me ! 
{He comes down from the altar steps amidst the 
hushed and 7'espectful surprise of the congre- 
gation, who all turn to look at him as he 
passes. Rose makes a very slight gesture of 
sympathy as he passes her. Andrew stands 
with hands over his eyes. Michael passes 
out by transept, his head bowed, his lips mov- 
ing in prayer as he goes off.) 

Curtain. 

{Ten months pass between Acts IV. and V.) 



ACT V 

Scene. — Reception room of the Monastery of San 
Salvatore at Majano, in Italy. A simply furnished 
room in an old Italian building. At back right an 
open door approached by a flight of steps, at back 
left a large window ; a mass of masonry divides the 
window and door. A door down stage, left. The 
portrait of Michael's mother hangs on the wall. 
Tune, a summer evening. Discover Father Hilary 
reading. Enter Sir Lyolf up the steps and by door 
at back. 

Father H. Well? 

Sir Lyolf. I've been to see her again. I can't 
get her out of my mind. 

Father H. How is she this evening? 

Sir Lyolf. In the very strangest state, laughing, 
crying, jesting, fainting, and chattering like a magpie. 
Ned, I believe she's dying. 

Father H. Dying? 

Sir Lyolf. Yes. It seems she had a kind of 
malarial fever a month or two ago and wasn't properly 
treated. I wish there was a good English doctor in 
the place. And I wish Michael was here. 
96 



act v MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 97 

Father H. Be thankful that he is away. 

Sir Lyolf. But if he finds out that she has been 
here, that she has sent again and again for him, and 
that we have hidden it from him — and that she has 
died? 

Father H. He mustn't know it until he can bear 
to hear it. We must consider him first. Think what 
he must have suffered all these months. Now that 
at last he is learning to forget her, now that he is find- 
ing peace, how wrong, how cruel it would be to re- 
open his wounds ! 

Sir Lyolf. She said he promised to come to her if 
she sent for him. She begged so hard. Ned, she has 
come from England with the one hope of seeing him. 
I felt all the while that I was helping to crush the life 
out of her. 

Father H. What did you tell her? 

Sir Lyolf. That he had gone away alone for a few 
days in the mountains. That we didn't exactly know 
where to find him, but that he might come back at 
any time, and that I would bring him to her the 
moment he returned. 

Father H. Well, what more can we do ? 

Sir Lyolf. Nothing now, I suppose. I wish we 
had sent after him when she came last week. We 
could have found him before this. Besides, she 
doesn't believe me. 

Father H. Doesn't believe you? 

Sir Lyolf. She thinks that Michael is here with 



98 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act v 

us, and that we are hiding it from him. I wish he'd 
come back, Ned. 

Father H. If she is passing away, better it should 
all be over before he returns. 

Sir Lyolf. I don't like parting them at the last. 
She loves him, Ned, she loves him. 

Father H. Remember it's a guilty love. 

Sir Lyolf. Yes, I know. 

Father H. Remember what it has already cost 
him. 

Sir Lyolf. Yes, I know. But love is love, and 
whether it comes from heaven, or whether it comes 
from the other place, there's no escaping it. Ned, I 
believe it always comes from heaven ! 

(Father Hilary shakes his head.) 

Sir Lyolf. I'm getting my morals mixed up in my 
old age, I suppose. But, by God, she loves him, Ned, 
she loves him — Who's that? 

(Father Hilary looks out of window, makes a 
motion of silence.) 

Father H. Hush ! He's come back. 

Sir Lyolf. I must tell him, Ned. 

Father H. Let us sound him first, and see what 
his feelings are. Then we can judge whether it will 
be wise to let him know. 

Ente?' up steps and by door Michael in the dress of a 
monk, but without a tonsure. He enters very list- 
lessly. He has an expression of settled pensiveness 



act v MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 99 

and resignation, almost despair. He comes up very 
affectionately to his father, shakes hands, does the 
same to Father Hilary. Then he sits down with- 
out speaking. ) 

Sir Lyolf. Have you come far to-day, Michael? 

Mich. No, only from Casalta. I stayed there last 
night. 

Sir Lyolf. You are back rather sooner than you 
expected? 

Mich. I had nothing to keep me away. One place 
is the same as another. 

Father H. x^nd about the future? Have you made 
up your mind ? 

Mich. Yes. I had really decided before I went 
away, but I wanted this week alone to be quite sure of 
myself, to be quite sure that I was right in taking this 
final step, and that I should never draw back. (To 
Father Hilary.) You remember at Saint Decuman's 
Isle, two years ago, you said you could give me a 
deeper peace than I could find within or around me ? 

Father H. And I can. And I will. 

Mich. Give me that peace. I need it. When can 
I take the vows? 

Father H. When I have prepared you. 

Mich. Let it be soon. Let it be soon. (To his 
father.) This is a blow to you 

Sir Lyolf. You know best. I wish you could 
have seen your way to stay in your own church. 



ioo MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act v 

Mich. I was an unfaithful steward and a diso- 
bedient son to her. She is well rid of me. (To 
Father Hilary.) You are sure you can give me that 
peace 

Father H. If you'll but give me your will entirely, 
and let me break it in pieces. On no other condition. 
Come and talk to me alone. 

( Tying to lead him off left. ) 

Sir Lyolf. No — ! Wait, Ned. ( Goes to Michael.) 
Michael, you are at peace now, aren't you ? 

(Michael looks at him.) 

Father H. He will be soon. Leave him to me. 

Sir Lyolf. No, Ned. I must know the truth 
from him. 

Father H. You're wrong to torture him. 

Sir Lyolf (to Michael). You are at peace now — 
at least, you are gaining peace, you are forgetting the 
past? 

Father H. He will. He shall. Say no more. 
(To Michael.) Come with me, — I insist ! 

Sir Lyolf. No. Michael, before you take this last 
step answer me one question — I have a reason for 
asking. Tell me this truly. If by any chance someone 
in England — someone who was dear to you 

Mich. Oh, don't speak of her — (Tarns away, 
hides his head for a minute, turns round with a sudden 
outburst.) Yes, speak of her ! Speak of her ! I 
haven't heard her name for so long ! Let me hear it 
again — Audrie ! Audrie ! 



act v MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 101 

Father H. {sternly to Sir Lyolf). Do you hear? 
Let him alone. Don't torment him by dragging up 
the past. He has buried it. 

Mich. No ! No ! No ! Why should I deceive 
you? Why should I deceive myself? All this pre- 
tended peace is no peace ! There is no peace for me 
without her, either in this world or the next ! 

Father H. Hush ! Hush ! How dare you speak so ! 

Mich. I must. The live agony of speech is better 
than the dead agony of silence, the eternal days and 
nights without her! Forget her? I can't forget! 
Look ! ( Takes out a faded red rose.) 

Sir Lyolf. What is it ? 

Mich. A flower she threw me in church the last 
time I saw her. And I wouldn't take it ! I sent her 
away ! I sent her away ! And her flower was tram- 
pled on. The next night I got up in the middle of 
the night and went over to the church and found it on 
the altar steps. I've kept it ever since. ( To his 
father.) Talk to me about her. I want somebody 
to talk to me about her. Tell me something you re- 
member of her — some little speech of hers. — Do talk 
to me about her. 

Sir Lyolf. My poor fellow ! 

Mich. I can't forget. The past is always with me ! 
I live in it. It's my life. You think I'm here in this 
place with you — I've never been here. I'm living 
with her two years ago. I have no present, no future. 
I've only the past when she was with me. Give me 



102 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act v 

the past! Oh ! give me back only one moment of 
that past, one look, one word from her — and then 
take all that remains of me and do what you like with 
it. Oh ! ( Goes back to bench, sits. ) 

Sir Lyolf (to Father Hilary). You see ! I must 
tell him 

Father H. No, not while he's in this mad state. 
Let's quiet him first. 

Sir Lyolf. Then we'll take him to her ! 

Father H. When he is calmer. 

Sir Lyolf. Take care it isn't too late. 

Father H. (goes to Michael, puts his hand on 
Michael's shoulder). This is weakness. Be more 
brave ! Control yourself ! 

Mich. Have I not controlled myself ? Who trained 
and guided himself with more care than I? Who 
worked as I worked, prayed as I prayed, kept watch 
over himself, denied himself, sacrificed himself as I 
did? And to what end? Who had higher aims and 
resolves than I? They were as high as heaven, and 
they've tumbled all round me ! Look at my life, 
the inconsequence, the inconsistency, the futility, the 
foolishness of it all. What a patchwork of glory and 
shame! Control myself ? Why? Let me alone ! Let 
me drift ! What does it matter where I go ? I'm 
lost in the dark ! One way is as good as another ! 
( The vesper bell heard off at some little distance.) 

Father H. You've wandered away from the road, 
and now you complain that- the maps are wrong. 



act v MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 103 

Get back to the highway, and you'll find that the 
maps are right. 

Mich. Forgive me, Uncle Ned — I'm ashamed of 
this. I shall get over it. I'll talk with you by and by. 
I will submit myself. I will be ruled. Father, come 
to me. You nursed me yourself night after night 
when I was delirious with the fever. I was a child 
then. I'm a child now. Talk to me about her. Talk 
to me about Audrie ! 

(Audrie's face, wasted and hectic, appears just 
over the doorstep, coming up the steps at back ; 
during the following conversation she raises 
herself very slowly and with great difficulty up 
the steps, leaning 011 the wall. ) 

Mich. I've heard nothing of her. Where do you 
think she is? In England? I think I could be 
patient, I think I could bear my life if I knew for 
certain that all was well with her. If I could know 
that she is happy — No, she isn't happy — I know that. 

Sir Lyolf. Michael, I've had some news of her. 

Mich. News! Good? Bad? Quick! Tell me. 

Sir Lyolf. You can bear it? 

Mich. She's dead ? And I never went to her ! I 
never went to her ! She won't forgive me ! 

Sir Lyolf. She's not dead. 

Mich. What then? 

Sir Lyolf. You promised you'd go to her if she 
sent for you. 

Mich. Yes. 



104 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act v 

Sir Lyolf. She has sent for you. {Sees he)- enter- 
ing.) 

Mich. She's dying? 

(She has gained the door, just enters, leaning back 
against the post. Michael's back is towards 
her.) 
Audr. I'm afraid I am. 

(Michael looks at her, utters a wild cry of joy, 
then looks at her more closely, realizes she is 
dying, goes to her, kisses her, bursts into sobs.) 
Audr. (putting her hand on his head). Don't cry. 
I'm past crying for. Help me there. (Points to seat.) 
(He seats her ; looks at her with great anxiety?) 
Audr. (laughing, a little weak feeble laugh, and 
speaking feebly with pause between each word) . Don't 
pull — that — -long — face. You'll — make me — laugh 
— if you — do. And I want to be — serious now. 
Mich. But you're dying ! 

Audr. (with a sigh). Yes. Can't help it. Sir 
Lyolf, pay — coachman — (taking out purse feebly) 
outside — No, perhaps — better — wait — or bring 
another sort — of — carriage. But no mutes — no 
feathers — no mummery. 

Sir Lyolf. I'll send him away. You'll stay with 
us now ? 

Audr. (nods). So sorry — to intrude. Won't be 
very long about it. 

(Exit Sir Lyolf by door and steps ; Michael is 
standing with hands over eyes.) 



act v MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 105 

Father H. {coming to Audrie). Can I be of any 
service, any comfort to you? 

Audr. No, thanks. I've been dreadfully wicked — 
doesn't much — matter, eh ? Can't help it now. 
Haven't strength to feel sorry. So sorry I can't feel 
sorry. 

Father H. There is forgiveness 

Audr. Yes, I know. Not now. Want to be with 
him. {Indicating Michael.) 

Sir Lyolf re-enters by steps. 

Sir Lyolf. Come, Ned 

Audr. {to Father Hilary). Come back again — 
in — few minutes. I shall want you. I've been dread- 
fully wicked. But I've built a church — and — {fever- 
ishly) I've loved him — with all my heart — and a 
little bit over. 

{Exeunt Sir Lyolf and Father Hilary, door 
left.) 

Audr. {motioning Michael) . Why didn't you come 
when I sent for you ? 

Mich. I've only known this moment. Why didn't 
you send before ? 

Audr. I sent you hundreds — of messages — from 
my heart of hearts. Didn't you get them ? 

Mich. Yes — every one. 

Audr. I've crawled all over Europe after you. 
And you aren't worth it — Yes, you are. You 
wouldn't come 



106 MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL act v 

- Mich. Yes — anywhere — anywhere — take me 
where you will. 

Audr. You know — he's dead. I'm free. 

Mich. Is it so? But it's too late. 

Audr. Yes. Pity ! Not quite a well-arranged 
world, is it? Hold my hand. We're not to be parted ? 

Mich. No. 

Audr. Sure ? 

Mich. Quite sure. You're suffering? 

Audr. No — that's past — {Shuts her eyes. He 
watches her.) Very comfortable — very happy — just 
like going into a delicious faint — (Sighs.) Do you 
remember — beautiful sunrise — diamonds on the 
sea 

Mich. Yes, I remember — all — every moment! 
And the wind that blew us together when we stood on 
the cliff! Oh! we were happy then — I remember 
all ! All ! All ! 

Audr. So glad your memory's good at last. (A 
vesper hymn heard off at some distance.) Pity to die 
on such a lovely evening — not quite well-arranged 
world? But we were happy — if the next world has 
anything as good it won't be much amiss. I'm going. 
Fetch — priest — (Michael is going to door left; she 
calls him back.) No. No time to waste. Don't 
leave me. We shan't be parted ? 

Mich. No ! No ! No ! No ! 

Audr. (gives a deep sigh of content, then looks up at 
his mother's picture). She's there? (Michael nods.) 



act v MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL 107 

She'll forgive me ! (Blows a little kiss to the picture.) 

But I'm your angel — I'm leading you 

Mich. Yes. Where? 

Audr. I don't know. Don't fuss about it. " Le bon 
Dieu nous pardonnera : c'est son metier" — {Closes 
her eyes.) Not parted? (Looks up at him.) 
Mich. No ! No ! No ! No ! 
Audr. You won't keep me waiting too long? 
(Looks up at him, a long deep sigh of content.) Hold 
my hand — Tight! tight! Oh! don't look so sol- 
emn 

(Begins to laugh, a ripple of bright, feeble laugh- 
ter, growing louder and stronger, a little out- 
burst, then a sudden stop, as she drops dead. 
Michael kisses her lips, her face, her hands, 
her dress.) 

Enter Father Hilary. 

Mich. Take me ! I give my life, my will, my soul, 
to you ! Do what you please with me ! I'll believe 
all, do all, suffer all — only — only persuade me that 
I shall meet her again ! 

(Throws himself on her body.) 

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